All There Is
by Bedelia
Summary: George disappears after the war. Hermione is sent on a quest to find him and help him heal.
1. The Mission

**All There Is**

* * *

_"Let all of life be an unfettered howl. Like the crowd greeting the gladiator. Don't stop to think, don't interrupt the scream, exhale, release life's rapture. Everything is blooming. Everything is flying. Everything is screaming, choking on its screams. Laughter. Running. Let-down hair. That is all there is to life."_

— _Vladimir Nabokov_

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**Chapter 1: The Mission**

"Granger," Draco Malfoy said as his white-blond head peeked over Hermione's cubicle wall. "I just saw the strangest thing when I was in the loo."

Hermione sighed. Whoever decided to give her and Malfoy adjoining cubicles didn't care one iota about her work productivity. On most days, he pestered her at least once per hour.

Setting her quill on the desk, she tried to look as if he'd interrupted something terribly important. In actuality, the only thing he disturbed was her staring contest with the clock as she counted down the final few minutes of the work day. Their jobs were alternately immensely rewarding and emotionally draining; that particular day had been mostly the latter.

"Aww, don't worry," she said. "It's normal to grow hair down there. It just means you're finally becoming a man."

Scoffing, Malfoy shot her a vintage sneer. "Don't be ridiculous. You know I wax."

"Ugh!"

His responding laugh was all smugness and arrogance. Post-war Malfoy was a strange creature, as far as Hermione could tell. Robbed of his ability to call her Mudblood, he'd taken to replacing the hateful slurs with inappropriate jokes.

She could never decide which version of him she preferred. Either way, he was still an arse who liked to wind her up.

He made a show of buffing his nails on his robes. "Anyway, did you know Percy Weasley's hair is pink today? And before you say anything, I mean the hair _everyone_ can see. I wouldn't know about the rest of it."

"Ah, yes. I did notice that." Pursing her lips to hide a smile, she pretended to be immersed in a case report about a werewolf. Malfoy huffed and crossed his arms when it became clear that she wasn't going to volunteer any further information.

"Well?" he said.

"Well what?"

"_Why_ is his hair pink?"

She hummed. With a deft wave of her wand, she sent the folders and rolls of parchment on her desk soaring into several orderly piles. She knew why Percy's hair was pink, of course. It was at least partially her fault. Whether she would share this knowledge with Malfoy was another story.

Honestly, the man was such a gossip.

"I'm sure he has his reasons," she said, grinning when he rolled his eyes at her feigned innocence. "Ooh, it's five o'clock! See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah. Try not to miss me too much."

"How can I miss you? You never go away."

-oOo-

As Hermione approached the garish storefront of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, she let her mouth curve into a secret smile. In the year since the final battle, it had come to be almost as much of a second home to her as the Burrow. Working on products for the joke shop filled a hole in her life that was left by the absence of schoolwork. Sometimes she regretted her decision to take her N.E.W.T.s without actually attending her final year at Hogwarts, but she couldn't very well remain a student forever.

Besides, there were people depending on her — including one who didn't even know it.

"Hi, Hermione," Lavender said as the shop door swung open. The glamour she cast every morning had begun to fade away, revealing a hint of angry red scars crisscrossing her neck that clashed with the vivid magenta of her work uniform. Ron and Verity both looked up and waved when they heard the jingling of the shop bell.

"Hi," Hermione said.

A flash of bright pink in her peripheral vision notified her that her partner in crime had arrived. Ron was both delighted and amused to see him.

"Blimey, Perce," he said in between guffaws. "You actually went to work like that?"

"Yes," Percy said, sticking his nose up in the air and failing miserably at looking dignified.

With Percy's hand on her elbow, urging her along, Hermione moved to the back room, leaving a still chuckling Ron behind. The long metal table that held their experiments and research notes was impeccable, not a single item out of place. The lemony fragrance of the numerous cleaning charms Percy had cast the night before hung in the air, the antiseptic sting burning her nose.

"D'you want to work on the Jack Russell Tarts?" she asked. "I think we've almost worked out all of the kinks."

Jack Russell Tarts were supposed to be jam tarts that temporarily turned people into Jack Russell terriers. Unfortunately, Percy and Hermione hadn't yet progressed beyond making themselves grow fur and a tail. The experience of sprouting a coat of fur had given her terrifying flashbacks of second year, Polyjuice, and Millicent Bullstrode's cat. To her relief, the transformation only lasted a few minutes.

"I suppose," Percy said. "But you have to be the one to test them. We don't know how it will react with this." He gestured at his luminous hair. "I have a date later, and it's bad enough that I might have to show up looking so...so..._pink_. I don't want to have a tail as well."

Percy on a date. Hermione took a moment to contemplate what that would be like (and stifled the giggles that accompanied such thoughts) before getting to work.

Together, they mixed potions, cast charms, and chatted about the Ministry. Now and then, one of them stopped to write a new product idea on the long strip of parchment that they kept pinned to the wall of their workroom. That ever-expanding list was a source of great pride to both Percy and Hermione. Even Ron had admitted it wasn't bad for two rule-abiding bookworms.

Well, except for some of Percy's contributions. It took some convincing on Hermione's part to make him admit that a filing cabinet charmed to automatically alphabetise its contents had no place in a joke shop.

A filing cabinet. _Honestly_. At least her House Elf Liberation Beanie idea had the potential to be funny. It wasn't, in the end, but it had _potential_, no matter what anyone else said to the contrary.

"It's a shame we don't have any first years handy," she said as Percy spooned their newest attempt at charmed jam into a pastry-lined tin.

Frowning, he pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. "First years? What good would they do?"

"Fred and George used to use them to test their products. I spent a lot of my time as a prefect trying to stop them."

With a sad, pale imitation of a smile, he cleared his throat. "I can imagine," he said. "So, how are you doing with that—" he waved his hand towards the work room door, "—out there."

"Ron and Lavender?"

"Mm."

She shrugged. "I'm fine. It's been months since Ron and I...well. It's a miracle we didn't kill each other, really. We're better off as friends. And anyway, he and Lavender aren't dating. As of right now, their only relationship is employer-employee."

Another spoonful of jam dribbled onto the crust. Percy's tongue stuck out of one corner of his mouth, as though the action required intense concentration.

"And if that changes?" he asked.

"Then it changes. As far as I'm concerned, Lavender is perfectly free to stick her tongue down Won-Won's throat if that's what they both want." Pausing, she wrinkled her nose. "Preferably when I'm not present. It was an unpleasant enough sight — and _sound_ — the first time around."

"Good." Percy smiled. "I just wanted to be sure. I was concerned it could cause an awkward situation if they ever stopped making moon eyes at each other and got on with it, with the two of us working so close to them."

"Well, no need to worry."

"All right," he said, using his wand to cook the pastry and presenting her with the finished Jack Russell Tart. "Here you go."

After drawing in a steading steadying breath, Hermione bit into it, hoping (as she always did during the testing part of the invention process) that if disaster struck, the Healers at St Mungo's would be able to paste her back together.

At first, nothing happened. It tasted like any ordinary raspberry jam tart, but with a slightly minty undertone (a big improvement over the first model, which had reminded her of hay and had the texture of lumpy porridge). Just as she opened her mouth to declare their latest attempt a dud, the room around her seemed to grow bigger and bigger until she found herself at eye-level with Percy's shins. When she tried to speak, it came out as a tiny yip of a bark.

Success!

For a few minutes, Hermione sniffed around the workroom floor. Everything smelt different and exciting as a dog. Instead of seeing the world through new eyes, she experienced it through a new nose. The Cleaning Charm was even worse in this form — almost painful — but she couldn't get enough of Percy's shoe leather. In this body, it smelled divine. If she hadn't retained her old mind and its associated knowledge about germs, she would have been hard-pressed to resist giving his laces a good chew.

Chuckling, Percy bent down and patted her head. "Good girl, Hermione," he said. "Now, sit."

Hermione snorted. Prat. The temptation to lick his cheek and slobber all over him as revenge was great, but as it _was_ still her tongue, even in a dog's body, she settled for snuffling his ear with her cold, wet nose.

With a pop of shifting joints, she returned to her normal shape. The fur itched as it shot back into her skin. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth for a few moments, lagging behind the rest of her body in the change.

"We did it!" she said.

Percy grinned, but his attention was diverted to other matters when he glanced at the clock.

"Um, Hermione, I'm thrilled about our breakthrough, but do you think we could work on fixing my hair now?"

Raking a hand through his fuchsia locks, he gave her a pleading look. As funny as the idea was, she couldn't let him go on a first date looking like a character from a Muggle video game.

"Why don't you ask Lavender for help?" she said. "She's almost a professional at Beauty Charms. She'll probably be able to make it red for the duration of your date, at least."

"Are you sure you don't want any more help back here? We have a lot of other—"

"I'm sure. You go ahead and have Lavender get you all pretty. Have fun on your date."

Smiling, he tugged on a rebellious curl that had escaped from her plait. Over the course of the time they'd spent working together, it was how he'd taken to showing affection. He gave the worst hugs — all stiff formality and awkwardness — but those little brotherly pulls of her hair were almost playful.

Well, as playful as Percy ever got.

Once he left, Hermione shuffled through his meticulous notes, trying to decide what to work on next. With only the noise of her own breathing and the rustle of parchment to keep her company, the silence in the workroom soon became oppressive. She needed music.

Singing a nonsense tune under her breath, she wandered over to the squat wooden table in the corner of the room that held the twins' old wireless set. Next to it sat a small, framed photo of Fred and George, taken the first day they opened the shop. Even though the war had just begun to pick up steam when they struck those poses, they looked so happy. Fred had his arm slung around George's shoulder, laughing at some inside joke. Every now and then, the George in the photo looked to his left at the eye-catching window display, his grin widening.

_George_.

Hermione shivered. Five months had stretched out after the end of the war before he went missing, ticking by with the slow monotony of bereavement. The last time she saw him, she thought he looked like a lost little boy. He tried to seem like he was okay for the sake of his family — he tried _so_ hard — but anyone who knew him at all could see how much he struggled.

It didn't surprise anyone when he left, though Mrs. Weasley didn't want to believe it. His note was brief. He said he was sorry, but he needed some time alone. Promises spilled across the page, telling of his intentions to come back before too long. Whenever "too long" was, it had not yet arrived. A key to a Gringotts vault was enclosed with the letter, bearing instruction to Ron to hire whoever he wanted to work in the shop. That, above all else, told Hermione how deep he'd sunk into depression.

He'd trusted _Ron_ with his money and business, for heaven's sake.

Forcing her mind back to the present, she fished her wand out of her pocket. It would do no good to lose herself in sad thoughts about Fred and George. The former was gone forever, and the latter would return when he was ready. She had work to do.

"I miss your laughter," she whispered to the photograph. "I hope you're at peace, Fred." Closing her eyes, she tapped the wireless set with her wand. Instead of the warbling sounds of Celestina Warbeck, she heard a beloved, long-missed male voice.

"Good evening! This is Rapier, here to bring you a very special edition of Potterwatch."

Clapping a hand over her mouth, she knelt on the ground and stared in silent disbelief at the wireless set.

"This just in: The Boy Who Lived Twice has become frighteningly dull," Fred's voice continued. "Sure, he's training to be an Auror and all, but when was the last time you heard of him breaking into a bank or defying an authority figure? No matter, though, because certain former prefects and Head Boys are picking up the slack in most unexpected ways. Their newfound dedication to mischief is very much appreciated. I've never been more proud."

The words were said in his usual carefree manner, but it was at this declaration of pride that a few tears made their escape from Hermione's eyes. She wasn't sure she could trust her own ears and believe what she heard, but _oh_, how she wanted to. A niggling voice in the back of her head told her it was the product of too much work and not enough sleep. She must have been pushing herself too hard.

If Fred decided to contact people from beyond the grave, why would he choose _her_?

"It just so happens that I have a mission for my favourite prefect," Fred said. "His Holeyness is in a bad way right now. I know you'll be able to find him with that gigantic brain of yours. I want you to help him laugh again. It won't be easy, mind you. He's pretty stubborn, but you always were one for hopeless causes, weren't you? You could even come up with a clever little acronym like H.U.R.L. or V.O.M.I.T. I don't know what the letters should stand for — that's your job."

Hermione let out a tear-choked burst of laughter. Leave it to Fred to continue to tease her even after he was dead.

"Don't involve anyone else," he said. "George will run away faster than Zacharias Smith in the face of mild danger if you try to bring the whole family along for a reunion, y'know. So, what do you say?"

She found herself taken aback by the direct question. Could he hear her if she spoke?

"O-okay," she said, feeling ridiculous. "I'll do it."

"Excellent. Thank you. Well, my dear bookworm, it's about time I signed off."

"No! Don't go."

She wanted to get his whole family, gather them around the wireless set, and give them a chance to say everything that had been left unsaid. She wanted to talk with him about product ideas for the shop. She wanted him to _stay_.

His voice lost all of its laughter, turning quiet and serious. "I have to, I'm afraid."

Biting her lip, she touched the wireless set with a shaking hand. It was the closest she could get to a goodbye hug.

Fred cleared his throat. "There's a gaggle of lovely Veela ladies here who are just waiting for me to keep them company. As much as I love hearing the sound of my own voice, I can't very well pass that up, can I?"

Wiping the moisture from her cheeks, Hermione chuckled. "No, I suppose not."

"Okay," he said. "Keep up the good work, love. Oh, and tell dear old Weatherby to keep the hair. It's very fetching. Good night."

As soon as she returned his farewell, the wireless clicked off, leaving her confused and bereft. Standing up, she paced around the room. She had to work out how to find George, but the bigger challenge was how to make him laugh. Again, she wondered why Fred would choose her. The only times she could recall making either of the twins laugh were completely unintentional and at her own expense.

Then, like a pink lightning bolt, an idea struck. If there was anything that always amused the twins, it was taking the piss out of Percy. Turning on the spot, she apparated to her flat. She had to hurry if she wanted to catch her victim before his hair looked normal again. With a quick Accio, she had her camera in hand.

Once she returned to the shop, she found Lavender puzzling over Percy's hair, which was just as blindingly pink as it had been earlier.

"Stop!" Hermione said just as Lavender raised her arm and started to mutter a spell. Lavender's wand fell to the floor with a clatter.

"Hey, what's the matter?" Ron said. "Have you been crying?"

"Oh, no, my eyes were watering. Noxious potion fumes. Don't worry; nothing's wrong. Hey, Percy, turn around will you?"

Ron and Lavender exchanged baffled looks as Hermione snapped a photo, looking as though they were beginning to question her sanity. Percy just glared.

"Why are you taking photos of me?" Percy asked.

"I'm making a scrapbook," she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I realised a few moments ago that I never want to forget seeing you with pink hair."

"That makes two of us," Ron said with a chuckle.

"Really?" Percy said. "I wish I could Obliviate the experience from my memory. It's horrid — not to mention completely inappropriate for the workplace."

"Actually, I think you should keep the hair, Weatherby," Hermione said, grinning at the trio of confused expressions. "It's rather fetching."

* * *

_**A/N: **__If this fic seems familiar, that'd be because it was originally posted in 2009. I'm currently in the process of editing the whole thing, and will be posting chapters as I work my way through it. __I can't really promise a consistent update schedule, but I **can** promise that I will finish this_. Thanks for reading! :)


	2. Reunion

_**A/N: **__If you still had this fic on alert from years ago, you're probably confused by the alert for this chapter. I recently decided to go back and edit some of my older fics, and this was one of them. I should be posting a chapter every other week as I work my way through it, and I'll be adding some new scenes/changing some plot points as well. If you decide to stick around and read the new version, I hope you like it as much as the old version. :) _

* * *

**Chapter 2: Reunion**

Groaning, Hermione hurled _Location Spells_ by Bianca Bogglehurst aside and rubbed her temples in slow circles. It may as well have been one of Lockhart's books for all the good it had done her. Another lunch hour wasted looking at the exact same spells she had already seen in every other book.

_What good is it to only have spells that look for a person's magical trace?_ she thought. _Bloody arrogant purebloods probably thought no one would ever have cause to search for a Muggle._

Two months had elapsed since her search for George began, and she had yet to find so much as a hint of his personal magical signature anywhere. Either he was dead (a notion she did not allow herself to entertain) or living like a Muggle and eschewing magic. During the weekends, she patrolled various Muggle London neighbourhoods, showing a photograph of George (which was charmed to be motionless) to everyone who would spare a few seconds to listen. Her second port of call was an Internet cafe, where she searched international address databases for any listings under his name.

Nothing. Not even a false lead.

She had even attempted one ill-fated spell on the Weasley family clock. George's hand was always pointed at home, work, or travelling, so she thought she might be able to use the clock to find the locations of his home and workplace.

The clock hadn't liked that at all. Hermione had a difficult time explaining the earthshaking noise to Mrs. Weasley.

_Why didn't Fred tell me where to find George?_ she thought. _Surely he would know — he knew plenty of things about Percy and me. Being so secretive and making me work it out for myself is positively Dumbledorian of him._

"Granger," a familiar drawl startled her out of her self-pity. "Who are you looking for?"

"None of your business."

"Well, you must want to find them pretty badly. You've been working on it nonstop for weeks. The bags under your eyes are getting bags of their own, and that rat's nest you call hair is even more unruly and frightening than normal. You look a bit like a reanimated corpse. And—"

"For the love of...just leave me alone, would you? Can't you see I don't want to talk to you? I _never_ want to talk to you. For once in your life, do both of us a favour and _shut up_."

So much for their post-war fights consisting of harmless teasing. Balancing work and side projects was beginning to make Hermione revert to the bundle of stress she'd become during third year, minus the Time Turner.

Malfoy's playful sneer disappeared from his face, replaced by a cold, stony look of indifference. Retreating to his own cubicle, he lapsed into silence. Throughout the rest of the day, not a single word passed between them.

As relieved as Hermione was to get some peace, she couldn't help feeling a twinge of guilt.

The next morning, she found a stack of old, unfamiliar books on her desk. It wasn't until she saw the piece of folded parchment propped against them that she realised they hadn't been left there by mistake.

The heavy paper was held closed by a monogrammed wax seal. The elegant effect was rather ruined by the drawing that identified it as being addressed to Hermione: a bucktoothed stick figure with a wild mane of snakes for hair. Clever.

_Granger,_

_These might help your little quest. Don't read too much into the gesture. Helping you from dying of exhaustion at your desk is purely selfish. People would suspect me of foul play if that happened, you know._

_Try to keep the books in decent condition. They were Snape's._

_DM_

After Hermione read the note a second time, she pinched herself, half-convinced she was dreaming. His disclaimers aside, Malfoy had just done something that was undeniably _nice_.

Maybe she had gone insane. Hearing dead people on the wireless, a Malfoy who did favours for a Mudblood — lunacy was the most likely explanation.

All morning, her fingers itched to leaf through the books. Their mysterious, timeworn leather covers with faded gilt lettering were like a siren song. Lunch hour had never been so slow to arrive. When the clock finally struck noon, she had to make a conscious effort to hold back a squeal of delight.

Opening the topmost book, she smiled at the familiar, spiky handwriting in the margins. After seeing the state of Professor Snape's old Potions textbook, she should have known his books would all come with a hefty dose of his opinions. As she turned the pages, she got whiffs of a spicy fragrance — the scent of his old classroom. It almost felt like she would see the billowing of black robes and a disapproving sneer at any second.

Fifteen minutes into her break, she found it: a spell that relied on an item belonging to the person to be effective. There was no mention of magical signatures at all. Snape's running commentary informed her that the more recently the item had been touched, the more accurate the spell would be.

Hermione ran downstairs to the floos at a speed she had never before been able to attain in heels. Within minutes, she was in the flat over Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, searching through the dust and cobwebs for something that George might have touched just before he left.

Even though she'd never set foot inside the twins' flat, she would have instantly known whose home it was if someone had dropped her there. It was so..._them_. Brightly coloured, striped wallpaper that reminded her of a sweet shop covered the walls. Although the floor hadn't been cleaned in nearly a year (possibly longer), she could see several scorch marks through the grime — undoubtedly put there by the twins' experiments. Instead of a sofa and chairs, several large, comfy bean bags in different colours were scattered around the living room. In one corner, a jumble of cards were laid out for a game of Exploding Snap that had been cut off in the middle.

Photos from happier times hung in a collage of frames over the fireplace. Hermione spotted the members of the Order, the Weasley family in Egypt, the Gryffindor Quidditch team as it was during Fred and George's fifth year, and — to her surprise — a picture of her with the twins. Matching, unrepentant grins curved their lips while her mouth moved in a silent lecture and her prefect badge gleamed on her chest. Lee Jordan must have taken it at some point during one of her tirades about their behaviour.

"Prats," she said with an affectionate smile.

A lump formed in her throat as she moved to the hallway. A long mirror hung on the wall, its reflective surface hidden by a tattered sheet.

"Oh, George," she whispered.

George's bedroom was much like Ron's: an ode to Quidditch through the medium of home decor. He'd left his old Cleansweep behind, propped up in the corner. Imagining George keeping his feet on the ground for such a long stretch of time seemed absurd — almost impossible. He was a Weasley and a Quidditch player; he was built for flying. Hermione ignored the sickening, rolling sensation in her belly.

He was _not_ dead. He promised he would come back.

As she rifled through his wardrobe, she struggled to keep her movements quiet. She had no idea how to explain her actions if anyone from the shop below came up to investigate. The clothes George had left behind were so small that he couldn't have squeezed into them past his third year. None of it would work for the spell. Frustrated, she let her gaze wander to his rumpled bedclothes.

Of course!

After grabbing one of his pillowcases, she flooed back to the Ministry and ran up to her cubicle. A mere ten minutes of her lunch break remained. Reading through the spell twice and practicing the wand movements ate up three of those minutes. Steeling herself, she spread the pillowcase on her desk.

"Reperio Erus."

A weak blue light spread upwards and formed into an image of Europe as seen from the air. Crossing her fingers, she held her breath as the wavering picture focused and began to zoom in — first on Western Europe, then on the UK, then on Southern England. Eventually, it settled on Northern London and its suburbs — a huge area to search, but easier than scouring the entire world.

Hermione touched the floating image, relief washing through her body. George wasalive.

"Found him, then?" Malfoy said, smirking when Hermione gave a startled jump.

She nodded. "The general area, at least. Listen, Malfoy—"

"If you do something stupid like apologise or thank me, I will hex you. Just return my bloody books and call me a ferret or some other terribly unoriginal name. Don't spoil this by turning it into a tender moment. My stomach can't take it."

"Very well, you utterly repellent excuse for a human being," she said with a poorly suppressed smile. "Here are your bloody books."

With a satisfied nod, Malfoy drew his wand and made sure Hermione saw him cast Scourgify on each volume.

"Now," he said, "explain to me why Percy Weasley came to work today with ears the size of dinner plates."

She grinned. "Not a chance."

-oOo-

Chewing her thumbnail, Hermione stared at a map of London.

_If I was George, where would I go?_ she thought, passing a finger over the northern portion of the map and willing one of the places to call out to her. And then, much to her surprise, one did. It almost _shouted_.

_Cockfosters Tube Station_.

It didn't require much stretching of her imagination to picture George stepping onto a Piccadilly Line train, seeing the electric sign that said, "This train is for COCKFOSTERS," and giggling to himself. With her destination decided, she gathered up her Muggle money and George's photograph before setting out for the nearest Underground station.

The first half of the day was uneventful, passing by with slow, deflating disappointment. One of the people she approached thought George looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't be certain. Around noon, she ducked into a bookshop for a break, her hopes feeling just short of pulverised.

Wandering around the nonfiction section, she breathed in the comforting scent of paper and ink. She passed a few minutes debating whether she should buy a new book on automotive repair for Mr. Weasley, weighing his potential glee against his wife's potential ire. In the end, Mrs. Weasley's wrath won out.

Just past the car books, around a corner and a few feet down the neighbouring aisle, she saw the back of a redheaded man with a stocky Beater's build. She stopped, her heartbeat thudding in her ears. As he turned to place a book back on its shelf, revealing his face in profile, Hermione gasped.

_Finally_.

Without a care for her surroundings, she ran towards him at full speed. George dropped the books in his hands, his eyes widening as she flung herself at him and wrapped her arms around his chest in a fierce hug.

"George! Is it really you?"

"Last I checked." Placing his hands on her shoulders, he held her at arms length so he could look at her face. "What are you doing here?"

"Err, this is a _bookshop_. Do you really have to ask why I'm here?"

His soft gust of laughter ruffled the hair at her temples. "I suppose not."

Releasing him, she bent to help retrieve the books he'd dropped. "What are _you_ doing here? I never thought I'd run into George Weasley in a bookshop, of all places."

"Shush. I have a reputation, y'know. Can't have something like that getting out." From the serious look on his face, she knew he was talking about more than the fact that she'd caught him looking at a "For Dummies" guide to mobile phones.

"Don't worry," she said. "Your secret is safe with me."

The tension eased out of his body with the release of a long sigh. "Good. I'd hate to be forced to tell everyone about that time I caught you practicing snogging techniques with Parvati Patil in the Gryffindor common room."

"That never happened!"

"Damn. And here I was hoping it was a prophetic dream." Inching closer, he raised an eyebrow. "So, what _does_ bring you here? I don't believe for a second that you just happened by. Did you really miss me so much that you had to stalk me?"

She rolled her eyes. "No. I mean, yes, I missed you, but there has been no stalking. It's...a long story. I can't really tell you here, though. And you won't want to go to a place for our kind, of course. Hmm." She pretended to consider her options, but she'd planned her speech two months ago. "Oh, I know! I'll bring dinner over to your house tonight."

George frowned. "I don't know..."

"Oh, come on. I already said I won't tell anyone. I would invite you to my flat, but Harry and Ron tend to just walk in whenever they please. I'm a good cook, and I could really use the company. I've been so busy lately that it seems like the longest conversations I have are with Percy and Malfoy."

"_Seriously?_"

"Yeah. I've been rather pre-occupied with work and various side projects. So, what do you say?"

Chuckling, he shook his head. "Well, how can I turn you down now?"

She dug through her handbag, carefully blocking the photo of him from his view, and handed him a scrap of paper and a pen. He muttered something under his breath as he used her back as a table to write his address.

"There you go," he said. "It's not far from here. Come over around 7, I suppose."

Grinning, she stood on her tiptoes to press an impulsive kiss to his cheek. "It really is good to see you."

"I shouldn't wonder. Percy and Malfoy? Pitiful. Just pitiful."


	3. Secret Lover

**Chapter 3: Secret Lover**

"Ow!" Harry said as Hermione smacked his wrist with a wooden spoon.

"That's what you get for trying to steal food," she said. "It's not ready yet. Hey! Ron!" While her back was turned, Ron had taken the opportunity to grab two still sizzling pieces of fried chicken that were draining on a piece of kitchen roll. With an unrepentant grin, he handed one of the drumsticks to Harry

"We're growing boys, y'know," Ron said.

"I need a more threatening weapon," she said with an annoyed glance at her spoon. "Maybe a rolling pin. One of those lovely marble ones. You two would think twice about crossing me if I was waving one of those things around."

The amused looks on their faces said otherwise. The confident little kleptos knew she would never purposely cause them genuine pain.

Shooting the boys a warning glare over her shoulder, she picked her way around the cluttered kitchen of Grimmauld Place to get some potatoes out of the pantry. In his spare time, Harry had been remodelling the whole house the Muggle way. For the past month he'd been attacking the kitchen with sandpaper, paint, tiles, grout, and varnish.

Every Saturday since the war, the three of them got together to eat dinner and catch up. They took turns cooking, but ever since Harry started working on the kitchen, the boys' contributions had generally tasted of sawdust. Even though it was Ron's turn that evening, Hermione chose to play chef. She didn't want George throwing her out for attempting to poison him when she took him a plate.

"I'm not going to be able to stick around for dinner tonight," she said. "I ran into a Muggle bloke I knew in primary school, and he invited me over to catch up." Smiling at Ron's instant frown, she patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm leaving you plenty of food."

The boys continued to trail after her as I cooked, pilfering bites of food and laughing at her affectionate scolding. Ron's eyes lit up when she eventually presented him with a heaping plateful of fried chicken, sweetcorn, and mashed potatoes with thick lashings of gravy.

He was so easy to please.

After charming two Tupperware containers full of food to stay warm, she tucked them into a bag along with her scrapbook and a special pudding for George. She let her hands rest on the rough canvas of the bag, taking a few deep breaths to calm her sudden nerves.

It was time to face the music. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on an alley a few streets over from the address George had written down. Her insides seemed to compress, her bones elongating as the squeezing sensation of Apparition overcame her.

She could only hope she wouldn't disappoint Fred.

-oOo-

Hermione's first impression of George's tiny flat was that it didn't suit him. At _all_.

The walls were stark white, without so much as a single framed photo or piece of art to liven them up. The furniture was of the flat-pack, mass-manufactured Swedish variety, all of it in drab, solid colours without even a hint of an interesting pattern. The carpet was beige — hell, the whole flat was unbearably _beige_.

He had put none of himself into this place. As she looked around and examined his home, she found that even though George was standing right next to her, she still missed him. The person who lived there didn't seem much like the George she knew.

"I hope you're hungry," she said as she set her bag on the table and began to unpack the food without waiting for an invitation. "Ron and Harry ate the majority of what I cooked, but I managed to save quite a lot for the two of us."

"It looks good," he said, walking past her to fetch plates, glasses, and cutlery. With a curious tilt of his head, he watched as she piled food onto one of the plates and slid it in front of him.

"Make sure you save room for pudding," she said as an afterthought.

Nodding, he took a bite of mashed potato. "You said you had a long story to tell me."

Bracing herself, she launched into her rehearsed explanation of how Fred had contacted her via the Wireless. She'd decided against telling George of the request to make him laugh again, but she thought he would probably want to know about the rest. A sharp pang reverberated through her chest when his face fell as she told him of her failed attempts to contact Fred a second time.

"I don't know what the next step is," she said. "I'm not even completely convinced that I'm not going crazy. But now that I've found you, I'd like to visit you again. If that's okay with you, of course."

George pushed a piece of chicken around his plate with his fork before responding. "I think that would be okay. Are you sure that you want to put up with me on a regular basis?"

"Yes," she said, too enthusiastically. "I've been searching for you for two months. I deserve to pester you for awhile."

"As I thought." The ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "Pining."

Laughing, she swatted his arm. When they turned their attention back to their meals, the silence was more companionable than awkward.

"George?"

"Hmm?"

"Why did you leave? Did you really just want to be alone?"

His posture went rigid. Remorse washed through her: instant and consuming. Snape had been right; she was full of entirely too many questions.

"Thought I'd give everyone a break from seeing my face." Raking a hand through his ginger hair, he sighed. "If I couldn't stand to see it, I reckoned they couldn't, either. Which is a damn shame, really, since I'm so incredibly handsome."

Thinking back, she could see what he meant. Just after the war, catching a glimpse of George from the side with the remaining ear before had made her heart leap up into her throat more than once.

Perhaps that was why Fred made her find George on her own. Searching for George had occupied her thoughts and gave her a constructive outlet for her grief. Now, she could look at him from either side and just see _George_.

"Well, I'm glad to see your face again," she said, "even if you _are_ a prat who makes all manner of false accusations about things like pining after you and snogging my former dorm mate."

"Ah, but I still maintain that dream was prophetic," he said with a waggle of his eyebrows. "I'm sure Professor Trelawney would agree."

"Yeah, and she's always so accurate." Opening her bag, she pulled out George's dessert. "Jam tart?"

She couldn't watch as he nibbled at the Jack Russell Tart. Her face would've given her away in an instant. Only when she heard the tiny pop and high-pitched bark that signalled his transformation did she dare to glance up from her staring contest with the table. Grinning, she scratched him behind the ears. Just in time, too, because with his larger build, the effects of the potion didn't last long. As he shifted back into his natural form, he blinked at her in silent amazement.

"Did _Hermione Granger_ just play a prank on me?" he asked after a few moments. The question seemed to be directed to the room, more than her.

"I did. Aside from work and looking for you, that's what has been keeping me busy. Percy and I have been developing new items for the shop."

George's eyes grew wide. "You're joking."

"I'm very serious. We wanted to help out."

"So _that's_ why you've been talking to him so much. I meant to ask about that. I know you both like rules, so I had this horrible thought that perhaps you were going out." Laughing, he tilted his chair back on two legs. It came slamming back down a moment later, accompanied by a choked gasp. "Wait! You said you talk to Malfoy a lot, too. You're not—" His face twisted into a grimace, as if the mere idea of voicing the words was distasteful to him.

"No! We work together at the Ministry. His cubicle is next to mine. The only relationship we have is one of mutual annoyance."

George snorted. "The Ministry gave Malfoy a job? I guess they haven't improved much since my departure from the Wizarding World."

"They ordered him to take the job, actually." Leaning forward, Hermione helped herself to a second glass of the wine that had been George's contribution to the meal. "It's his punishment. He and I are part of a temporary office that provides aid for people who were displaced by Voldemort. We do stuff like find homes for orphans, try to rehabilitate the house-elves of Death Eater families — things like that."

"And I'm guessing you work with the elves?" George's tiny smile reappeared — presumably at the prospect of teasing her about S.P.E.W.

"No, that's...well, that's Malfoy's job. The elves, um. You see, there were a few incidents when I tried to talk to them. The poor things have been so abused. They just couldn't accept that they have a right to freedom."

His smile broadened until it was almost one of his old grins. "They threw a fit when you tried to trick them into taking clothes, didn't they?"

A laugh bubbled up her throat, helped along by the giddy sensation provided by the wine. "Maybe."

Chuckling, he patted her shoulder in mock consolation. "So, what other products have you made for the shop? I can't believe Percy is helping you."

"You'd be surprised. He even cracks a joke from time to time. Not often, mind you. He dominates most of our conversations by babbling about regulations and how I should go about moving up in the Ministry, but every now and then he does try to make me laugh. Usually at Ron's expense." After fishing the scrapbook out of her bag, she dragged her chair across the squeaky linoleum until they were sitting side by side. "And these are the products we've been making for the shop. I took some pictures for you."

The first photograph brought a smile to George's face: a very angry, pink-haired Percy.

"We just recently perfected that one. There were a few, err, mishaps during development. Poor Percy walked around like that for a week before it wore off. He even went on a date."

At the mention of Percy's date, George threw his head back and shook with laughter. "How long is it supposed to last?"

"An hour. Which it does, now."

He wrinkled his nose. "An hour of pink hair? That's it?"

"The colour depends on the situation. They're little sweets that look and taste like parma violets. We call them Paramour Violets. When you eat one, it makes your hair change colour to reflect the feelings you have for any person you see. The more intense the colour, the stronger the feelings."

"Oh?" He smirked. "And who was old Perce looking at when his hair turned this rather bright shade of pink?"

"Well, it was me—" she swatted his arm, faking a scowl at his waggling eyebrows, "—but pink means platonic affection. Once we got it working properly, it turned the same colour when he looked at Ron."

"Aww, Percy loves Ronnie," he said with another soft laugh. "What are the other colours?"

"Purple for romantic affection, white for indifference, and black for hatred. To test the last colour, we had to give one to Ron and take him into my office. Malfoy was a bit confused, to say the least."

Smiling to herself at the memory, she turned the page to reveal a photo of Ron with his ears growing progressively larger as Lavender's mouth moved faster than a Golden Snitch.

"We don't have a name for this one, just yet. There are still a few kinks to work out. It's a potion that makes your ears grow bigger when you aren't listening. We sneaked some of it into Ron's pumpkin juice and told Lavender to talk to him about fashion. She's your latest employee, by the way."

The next page showed Draco eating a saxophone shaped chocolate. It was, by far, Hermione's favourite of the moments she'd captured in the scrapbook. As she and George looked on, Draco's features slowly softened and became more feminine. His chest ballooned up, forming into a pair of breasts large enough to rival Madam Rosemerta's. He poked them experimentally a few times, watching them jiggle. And then, much to Hermione's amusement, he got the idea to look down his trousers. The expression of pure, unadulterated fear that spread across his face at what he found (or, to be more accurate, what he didn't find) made her feel as though she could cast a wandless Patronus.

"Sax Change Chocolates," she said in between gasps of laughter. "They change your gender for an hour."

"Bloody hell, why didn't you give me one of those instead of the dog thing? I could do with a more ample bosom." Patting his flat chest, he shot her a wink. "I might even be persuaded to let you practice snogging a girl with me instead of Parvati."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "How generous of you."

"As long as I get pictures of the event, I'm not fussy."

After polishing off the wine, they moved to the living room, where she perused his bookshelf with a smile that was equal parts fondness and amusement. Almost all of his books were instructional volumes from the "For Dummies" series.

"I had to figure out how to behave like a proper Muggle, somehow," he said. "What I remembered from Muggle Studies was pretty useless in the real world. Though, really, I think I should get my final grade changed to an O for remembering anything at all."

"I can imagine. What have you been doing with yourself, when you aren't reading Muggle instructional manuals?"

"Working as a groundskeeper at a nearby university. Thanks to the gaps in my knowledge of Muggle devices, I had to do some quick talking when I first got the job. Apparently, not knowing what a lawn mower is or how to operate one will make people slightly suspicious when you claim to have a Muggle degree in horticulture."

"Funny, that."

"I know. People are so strange."

Turning to face him, Hermione leant against the bookcase. "I wonder how many of your co-workers thought you were completely insane."

He shrugged. "No more than would have otherwise. They just got there faster. Hey, do you have one of these mobile thingummies?" Digging in his pocket, he produced a small, silver mobile phone. "I just got mine the other day. Yet another thing Muggle Studies didn't teach me. Apparently you're a freak if you don't have one. It's like a wand to Muggles, I guess. I was thinking we could use them to arrange when you want to come pester me."

"I do have on, actually. My parents prefer to communicate via phone. They got tired of trying to explain why owls kept showing up at their dental practice. It won't work when I'm at the Ministry or in Diagon Alley, but you'll be able to get in contact with me when I'm in my flat. What's your number?"

George snatched her phone out of her hand the second she produced it from her handbag. "Give me that. I'll put it in myself. I'm getting good at using these."

Biting back a giggle, she watched him stick his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. Pressing buttons on her phone seemed to require his utmost concentration. After he finished putting her number into his own contact list as well, he turned to her with a triumphant grin.

"Very impressive," she said. Glancing at the time, she added, "Ugh. I should probably head home."

"Do you want to come over tomorrow? You can sample my fabulous Muggle cooking skills."

"Hmm. Should I be afraid?"

"For your life? No. I doubt my cooking will actually kill you. For your taste buds? Maybe. You'll have to risk it and see."

Hermione laughed. "Well, it wasn't for nothing that I was sorted into Gryffindor. I'd love to."

When she hugged him tightly and kissed him on the cheek just before preparing to disapparate, he hugged her back. There were no timid, unsure pats on the back like before; it was a genuine embrace. It left her with a warm, victorious feeling that followed her all the way to her own flat.

Later that night, she realised there was no listing for George Weasley in her phone. Frowning, she scrolled through her contact list, half-worried that he'd lied to her in preparation to disappear again. But then, near the end, she found an entry that could only have been put there by George.

_Secret Lover_. He put himself into her phone under the name Secret Lover.

She didn't correct it. George playing any sort of prank was reason to celebrate. Mild as this joke was, it filled her with cautious hope that she would succeed.


	4. To Tell the Truth

**Chapter 4: To Tell the Truth**

"Percy, it should have worn off by now!"

As she stared at her reflection in the mirror, Hermione's stomach churned. Thanks to testing a less than successful new product, she looked like a distant relative of Professor Snape.

"Hmm," Percy said, poking the tip of her giant nose with his wand. "Maybe we added too much fluxweed. If we go back to the shop—"

A buzzing, musical sound from the kitchen cut him off. Hermione's mobile.

"What's that?" he asked as he followed her and peered at the vibrating, chiming bit of plastic. "One of those fellytone things?"

_Honestly_. She would've thought one of the Weasleys would get it right after the billionth time she corrected them. It was a miracle George had survived so long living as a Muggle.

"Telephone, and yes."

Percy peered at the display over her shoulder. Speak of the devil.

_Secret Lover is calling._

"Muggle friend," she said when she noticed Percy's raised eyebrows. Flipping the phone open, she greeted George a bit less cheerfully than she normally would.

"Hey Hermione," he said, unfazed by her curt tone. "You busy?"

"Um, kind of." She grimaced at her reflection again. "I can probably take a break, though. What's up?"

"Want to come over? I tried my hand at making curry for the first time."

Aside from his initial invitation, this was the first time he had made a real effort to get together. Over the past few weeks, all of their meetings had been initiated by her.

Hermione's responding grin only served to encourage Percy's suspicious expression.

"Yeah, that'd be great," she said. "I'll be there in 30 minutes or so."

"You're going out with a Muggle?" Percy asked once she'd ended the call.

"We're not going out."

Until that moment, she had never noticed a familial resemblance between the twins and Percy beyond the obvious hair colour. That changed in an instant. His smirk was pure Fred and George.

"We're not!" she said. "Look at my nose, Percy. No growth. We're just friends."

"You should bring him around for Sunday lunch at the Burrow sometime," he said as he sat down on the creaky sofa and folded his hands over one knee. "Dad would love it, and the rest of us could threaten him with bodily harm if he hurts you."

"Oh, _could_ you?"

Nodding, he reached up to tug on one of her curls. "It's a time-honoured tradition."

"Well, there's no need, because I am most certainly not going out with him or anyone else. I have enough on my plate right now. Speaking of which, can't you _please_ shrink my nose?"

"I should let you show up for your date looking like that. I had to go on one with pink hair, after all." In spite of his words, he stood up and drew his wand with precise, careful movements. "But, of course, it's_ not a date_." The quirk of his eyebrows indicated that he didn't believe this, no matter what her nose did. "And he's a Muggle, so I suppose it would be difficult to explain your new nose to him."

Grin still firmly in place, he waved his wand over her face and whispered a few incantations.

"There." He puffed out his chest, as though he had just cured Lycanthropy instead of shrinking an enlarged nose. "I think that's about the right size. Just make sure you tell him the truth."

"Shouldn't be a problem. Thanks, Perce. I'll see you later."

-oOo-

In retrospect, Hermione should have known better than to visit George whilst under the influence of the prankster equivalent of Veritaserum.

George's flat was redolent of onions, garlic, and spices. Refusing to allow her to help with the cooking, he directed her into a seat at his breakfast bar and let her chatter away about her work at the Ministry and the joke shop while he hovered over the pots and pans on the hob. Anxious to fill the silence, she made the mistake of telling him about her latest mishap with testing inventions. The sight and smell of the simmering curry was so mouthwatering and distracting that she didn't even consider the ramifications of letting that information slip until it was too late.

Sometimes, she wondered if Ron's food obsession was catching. At least she knew she'd never talk with her mouth full, no matter how much time she spent around him.

"So, let me get this straight," George said, spooning some lamb dopiaza onto her plate. "You have to answer any question I ask truthfully, or your nose will grow?"

"Err, well. I could always refuse to answer."

He grinned. "Where's the fun in that?"

"The fun would be in the lack of potential humiliation. It's hardly fair when you aren't similarly afflicted."

"I could promise to tell the truth."

When he fluttered his eyelashes at her in what she thought was supposed to be an innocent fashion, she offered him a scoff in response.

"Don't you trust me?" he asked in a quiet, almost serious voice. His fake wounded puppy look was surprisingly powerful. She very nearly caved.

"Absolutely not," she said, softening the words with a teasing smile. "I've known you too long to trust you."

To her utter consternation, her nose doubled in length the instant she finished speaking.

"You do trust me!" George said with an obnoxiously victorious burst of laughter. "Okay, now admit it. You've always secretly thought that I am incredibly sexy, haven't you?"

The blush creeping into her face wouldn't be suppressed, no matter how hard she tried. Had he always been such an unabashed flirt? Perhaps it had just never been directed at her before. Now that she was one of the only girls he spoke to with any degree of familiarity on a regular basis, she was falling victim to the full brunt of the Weasley twin charm.

"This would be one of those times I refuse to answer," she said.

Pouting, he brought out his puppy dog eyes again. A faint swell of guilt washed through Hermione at the thought of Fred asking her to make George laugh.

"You already know that you're an attractive person; you don't need me to confirm it." Pausing, she picked at a piece of garlic naan and avoided making eye contact with him. "Girls have always drooled over you."

"Not of late," he said with a self-deprecating chuckle.

Unwilling to ask the obvious question in return, she continued to hold a staring contest with the table.

"Yes," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"Yes, I think you're pretty. Isn't that what you were trying to work up the nerve to ask me?"

She chose not to answer.

"Who was your first kiss?" he asked.

"Your brother. Yours?"

"Alicia Spinnet. Damn. I was so _sure_ you snogged Krum."

Pressing her lips together into a thin line only just managed to hold in the giggle that threatened to bubble up her throat. "Viktor was my second kiss. Your brother kissed me about a week before."

"Huh. No _wonder_ Ron was so angry about you and Krum. Y'know, Fred and I had a bet that Krum got to you on the night of the Yule Ball, actually."

The sadness that clouded his face at the mention of his brother's name made her want to reach out and clasp his hand. He waited until she took a sip of water to voice his next question.

"Have you ever had lustful thoughts about Percy?"

"No!" she said once she stopped coughing and sputtering. "Have _you_?"

George made a face like he'd just eaten a vomit flavoured Bertie Bott's. "I want to give you a sarcastic answer about Perce really baking my Cauldron Cakes, but I can't even bring myself to joke about such a horrid idea."

With a dramatic shudder, he pushed his empty plate away. Chuckling to herself, Hermione continued to savour her own food.

"Did you mean it when you said you missed me?" he said.

"Yes."

"Hmm." He grinned. "I might have missed you a little bit. It's hardly worth the effort of misbehaving without you or Mum around to scold me."

She had to wonder how much misbehaving he'd done over the past year. From what she'd seen since they got reacquainted, he'd been existing — not living.

"Okay, since we're telling the truth, I have a confession," he said. "I didn't make this food."

"You didn't?"

"Nope. It's take-away."

"Don't you know how to cook?"

"Yeah, with _magic_."

"Well, you _do_ have a wand..."

He gave an emphatic shake of his head. "My magic hasn't really been working properly since the end of the war. Last time I tried to do anything, I almost took Ginny's eye out. Everything goes all haywire. It's like I'm ten years old again."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. So _that_ was where Ginny got that scar on her wrist.

"Is that why don't you fly anymore?" she asked before she could stop herself.

"Not...exactly."

"Then why?" she said, even though she knew. Flying was something he had always done with Fred.

George hesitated, tracing a long finger over a crack in the tabletop. "Where am I going to fly? I live in a Muggle neighbourhood."

"We could go to the Forest of Dean." Even to her own ears, Hermione's voice sounded far too cheery.

"_We_?" he said, looking more surprised than she'd ever seen him.

"Y-yeah. It's nice and secluded. I could side-along apparate you."

"And then what? You'll sit on the ground and read while I fly all by my lonesome?"

_Fred_, she thought, _you had bloody well better appreciate this_.

"I'll fly too."

George snorted. "No offence, but I'm not sure you would be able to keep up with me. Unless you intend to kidnap a thestral, I suppose."

Placing her hands on her hips, she gave him what she liked to call the "Do Your Homework, Ronald" glare. This tactic had little to no effect on George. He just smiled.

Not surprising, she supposed, given how often he'd been inclined to do homework in school.

"Or you could join me on my broom," he said, laughing when her eyes widened in terror. "You _do_ trust me, after all."

"Fine. I'll go get your broom right now."

No, _that_ was the most surprised she had ever seen him. Well, she wasn't about to back down. If it would get him back in the air, she would force herself to ride on that horrible stick of inevitable pain and death.

-oOo-

In the peaceful blue glow of twilight, surrounded by a calm, ancient wood, very little in the world should have seemed threatening. Especially not something as innocuous as a broom. Even so, it took every last shred of Hermione's courage not to run away screaming when George mounted his old Cleansweep and grinned at her with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"Hmm. I reckon you should sit in front of me so I can hold onto you," he said, bending his legs so the broom was on her level. "Here, sit sidesaddle."

Gulping in an attempt to swallow the lump in her throat, she allowed George to lift her so she was situated in between his legs. When she clung to him, a quiet chuckle rumbled through his chest.

"Relax," he said, rubbing a soothing hand over her back. "We haven't even left the ground yet."

"I'm not sure I want to leave the ground. I like it. It's my friend. The ground has been very good to me. I'd hate to spoil that by crashing into it and breaking every bone in my body."

"I think you and the ground need to spend some time apart. Your relationship has become too co-dependent." The movement of his hand on her back slowed to a halt as he tightened his hold on her.

"Ready?" he whispered in her ear.

"Do you promise to not let me fall?"

"I promise."

Without further warning, he kicked off against the ground. Burying her face in his chest, she fought the urge to scream. The delighted peal of laughter from her companion barely registered over the roar of her own panicked breaths.

A ridiculous number of people had tried to get her to fly with them over the years. It was bound to happen when her closest friends were Quidditch players, but she'd almost always been able to put them off. Saying Hermione would rather do anything instead of getting on a broom was far from an exaggeration.

Spend quality time with Dolores Umbridge? Absolutely. Snog Percy? Pucker up, Weatherby. Face Bellatrix Lestrange again?

Well, that last one would depend on the broom in question, and who was flying it. Hermione thought she would pick another duel with Bellatrix over a Firebolt piloted by Gregory Goyle.

Absolutely everyone seemed to think they could convince her of the joy of flying. Deluded fools, the lot of them. Brooms and Hermione did not mix except in situations of mortal peril — like when escaping the Room of Requirement when it was engulfed by Fiendfyre.

George, at least, didn't suffer from any delusions that she would enjoy herself. Even though it seemed like they sped along faster than a Golden Snitch, she got the feeling he flew a bit slower than normal for her sake. Focusing all of her attention on his warm, strong presence, she tried to forget that they were careening through the air, much too far from her friend, the ground.

When they (_finally_) landed, she needed a few minutes to collect herself before apparating back to George's flat. As woozy as she was, she'd be sure to splinch them. Flopping down on the grass — the beautiful, solid, _safe_ grass — she looked up at the sky. George sat next to her, slinging an arm over her shoulders.

"All right there, Hermione?" he asked with a hint of suppressed laughter.

"Yeah, just give me a few more minutes."

"Mm. No problem." Tilting his head back, he looked at the bright net of stars overhead. "Did you know I got an E in Astronomy?"

"You did?"

"Hey, don't sound so surprised. I did. I bet I can name some constellations even _you_ don't know."

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, trying (and failing) to not feel insulted at the implication that he had some book knowledge that went beyond hers.

"Is that so?" she said.

"It is. Look." Leaning closer, he raised his free arm to point at a cluster of stars near the horizon. "See those five stars there?"

"Yeah."

"That's Merlin's testicles."

Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. "It is not."

"No, it is. It's true. And see those seven up there? That's Circe's saggy third nipple."

"You're impossible," she said with a giggle that refused to be contained.

"Ah, but I bet you feel better now, don't you?"

She did. The rampaging hippogriffs in her belly had calmed down enough to allow her to safely get them back to his flat.

"I should get home," she said once they were once again in his living room. "It's late, and I have work in the morning."

"Okay. See you sometime next week?"

"Of course. And hey, if you want help learning how to _actually_ cook the Muggle way, I could teach you."

He grinned. "You just want an excuse to boss me around."

"Pft. Like I need an excuse."

"Good point. All right, that'd be good. But no corporal punishment. I've watched a few films with those women in the weird black headdress things. You know, the ones who teach school and don't shag anyone?"

"Nuns?"

He nodded. "Yeah, them. I refuse to let you slap me with a ruler when I misbehave in class."

"Spoilsport."

"Ah, see, I _knew_ you'd be disappointed. I always suspected you were secretly very kinky. It's always the studious ones."

Hermione chose to laugh and give him a hug in spite of the blush that spread upwards from her neck and made her face feel like it would go up in flames. Unrepentant, George kissed her cheek and enveloped her in the kind of warm embrace that she suspected only a Weasley was capable of giving. As she looked at his windblown hair, red cheeks, and eyes that were practically gleaming with joy, she found that the end result of getting on a broom with him was worth the cost of being frightened for her life.

Not that she was going to do it again any time soon. No, the only way she was getting back on that thing was if she caught him crying.

Still, it was nice to see him happy again. More than nice.


	5. Carl, Tallulah, and Ethel

**Chapter 5: Carl, Tallulah, and Ethel**

"Oops, sorry!" Hermione said as she bumped into a broad chest on her way out of Diagon Alley and into Muggle London.

"That's okay," a familiar voice said. Her head snapped up, her eyes widening as she looked at the smiling face of Lee Jordan.

"Lee! _Hi_!"

"Err... hey?"

"Are you busy? I have something you might like to see."

He quirked an eyebrow. "No, not really. I was just headed home."

"Great! Um, hold on for just a second."

After fishing her mobile out of her handbag, she scrolled through her contacts list and hit the button to call _Secret Lover_. Crossing the fingers of her free hand, she tapped out out a nervous rhythm on the pavement with her left foot.

"Hey," George said after the fourth ring. "Slight cooking crisis going on here. Tried to make a jacket potato. I think I angered it. I was just about to ring you."

"Oh, yeah? D'you want to go out to eat somewhere?"

"Sure. Pizza?"

"Could do. How do you feel about someone else coming with us, though?"

"Err. Depends. If it's Crookshanks, then no. I don't trust him."

She laughed. "It's Lee Jordan. I just ran into him in Muggle London — literally."

"Really? How is he?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

"Um. All right. I guess that would be okay. Yeah. It's probably about time I had someone else to bother aside from you, anyway."

"Oh, please. You can't get rid of me that easily."

He chuckled warmly. "Good to know. So, I'll see you soon?"

"Yep. I'll be there in a minute."

"What's going on?" Lee asked as Hermione ended the call.

Grinning, she extended her hand towards him for side-along apparition. "Want to find out?"

"Just so you know," he said as he linked his arm with hers, "this is all very strange and cryptic."

"It'll make sense soon. I promise."

Lee stumbled when they arrived in George's living room, almost toppling into the coffee table. "Full points for not splinching me," he said, "but your landing could use some work. Now, what's this big mystery, then?"

"Hey, mate," George said with a sheepish smile and a wave from the sofa.

Lee's mouth fell open. "Hey. Wow. Where the hell have you been? You don't fire-call, you don't write... I was beginning to think I was some girl you were trying to avoid."

"Well, you _are_ awfully pretty..." George cut off with a laugh when Lee punched him in the chest. "Come on, let's get something to eat."

-oOo-

"All right," Lee said, sloshing a generous measure of vodka into his glass and stretching his legs out on George's sofa. "Never have I ever had an erotic dream about one of my former teachers."

"In my defence," Hermione said, pausing to take a drink, "I was an impressionable little second year, and he was famous. And I got over it as soon as I knew him."

"Lockhart?" Lee said, guffawing. "Oh, that's brilliant. And hey, George? What are you waiting for?"

"You are an utter, utter bastard," George said, though he smiled as he lifted his own cup to his lips.

Hermione snorted. "Which professor?"

Shuddering as he swallowed the alcohol, George shook his head. "Nope. Not telling."

"Oh, come on. I won't tell anyone. Although... was it Professor Snape? I might tell people if it was him."

George's voice came out as an indignant yelp. "_Fuck_ no."

Making eye contact with her when George wasn't looking, Lee mouthed, _Sprout_. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles.

"Your turn, Hermione," George said.

She winced. Letting George and Lee talk her into playing this ridiculous game ("for old times' sake," they'd claimed) was a mistake. Not only had she never done anything interesting, she couldn't think of anything good to say she hadn't done.

"Um," she said. "Never have I ever had sex."

There. That was the best she could do. To her complete surprise, although Lee took a gulp of his drink, George did not. Instead of responding to her questioning look, he just smirked and shrugged his shoulders.

"Enough of this," Lee said. "We're getting completely pissed, and Hermione has barely touched her drink."

"You could've said things like, 'Never have I ever been a prefect,'" Hermione said.

"Damn." Lee frowned. "I guess we could've. Oh well, never mind. Let's watch something on this what's-it-called—"

"TV," George said.

"Yeah. That."

George switched the television to an old film from the '80's. Hermione smiled. Watching something she'd seen dozens of times before was soothing, in a way. Like revisiting a place from her childhood. While Lee hogged the sofa, Hermione shared the floor with George, resting her head on his shoulder and nursing her drink. Nestled against him, comfort and warmth seeped in, making her eyelids droop. Just as she started to nod off, a snore rumbled through Lee's chest and startled her awake.

"Good Lord," she whispered. "How did you manage any sleep when you shared a dorm with him?"

Laughing, George slung an arm around her waist. "Silencing Charms work wonders."

"I bet." With a long yawn, she stretched her arms over her head. "What time is it?"

"About two, I think."

She groaned. "Too late for the Tube, then. I'm way too drunk to apparate home. Maybe the Knight Bus—"

"Don't be silly. Just stay here." Without waiting for a response, he grabbed her hands and yanked her to a standing position. "Come on. I'll loan you something to wear to bed."

A few minutes later, she found herself tucked into George's bed next to him, wearing one of his old t-shirts and a pair of his boxer shorts. A bright smile spread across her face as George wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to his chest.

"Herm—Herma—hell, your name is too long," he said. "I'm giving you a new one. From now on you are Carl."

"Carl?" she said with quiet giggle. "Shouldn't it be Carla?"

"Nope. Too many syllables. Plus, you're sort of like one of the blokes, you know? That's why I like you."

What _was_ it with Weasleys being blind to the fact that she was female? Fighting to suppress her irritation at his innocent, drunken proclamation, she fidgeted with the hem of the blanket.

"Oh?" she said. "Do you cuddle like this with all of your male friends?"

"Mm. No. Only the ones with breasts. Don't tell Lee. He'll end up getting implants in order to get some of my snuggles."

"In high demand, are they?"

"Yup." His chin bumped against the top of her head as he nodded.

"I wonder if either of your brothers were aware I was male when they kissed me."

"Well, Ron has never been that perceptive. He..."

His body jerked with sudden realisation. Propping himself up on one elbow, he studied her face. He had left the curtains open, so the combined glow of the moon and the streetlights illuminated his bemused expression.

"Wait, brothers?" he said. "Plural? Who came after Ron?"

"The other brother was before Ron. It was my first kiss, actually."

"Oh! When you said your first kiss was with my brother, I just assumed Ron."

Hermione breathed out a soft laugh. Misleading him had been entirely intentional. She'd always wanted to know if George had been told about that night.

"Okay, wait," he said. "Don't tell me. I bet I can guess. I already know it wasn't me. I'd remember kissing a bloke, I think."

"You might not remember right now. You're fairly drunk. In a roundabout way, you just referred to yourself as your own brother."

"Pfft. Pedant. Okay, okay. Let me think. Was it Percy?"

"Absolutely not."

"Charlie?"

"I barely know Charlie. I don't think I've even been alone with him."

After a long pause, his eyebrows shot up. "It wasn't Bill, was it? He's married!"

"Of course it wasn't Bill!"

"Good. I'd have to kick his arse for taking advantage of you. He's too old for you, mate."

Tapping her fingers together, she waited for him to come to the obvious conclusion.

"It was Fred?"

"Ah, he finally catches on."

"You kissed _Fred_? When? Where? _Why_? How did I not know about this?"

With a wistful smile, she launched into the story of her first kiss — a secret that, until that moment, she'd only shared with Fred and a few portraits.

-oOo-

_Muttering to herself, Hermione stalked through the halls of Hogwarts. Who did Ron think he was? He had some nerve, getting angry with her for going to the Yule Ball with Viktor._

_A flash of red hair caught her attention. Apparently, she wasn't the only frustrated person out and about that night. Fred Weasley paced back and forth at the end of a nearby corridor, mumbling some rather colourful insults about Ludo Bagman._

_"Oh!" he said, startling at the sight of her. "Hey, Hermione. Couldn't sleep?"_

_Afraid her voice would crack and betray her if she spoke, she settled for shaking her head._

_"Yeah, me either." Frowning, he took a closer look at her face. "Hey... are you crying?"_

_She shrugged, neither confirming nor denying it._

_"Is this about your little row with Ron?"_

_"You heard that?" _

_He chuckled. "I think all of Gryffindor Tower heard that."_

_"Well, that's just great. Perfect end to a perfect evening." _

_Crossing her arms over her chest, she joined him in leaning against a nearby windowsill and staring out at the empty, frozen grounds._

_"What, Viktor didn't show you a good time?" _

_"I left before he really had much of a chance. Ron came along and ruined everything."_

_"Yeah." Rubbing the back of his neck, Fred rocked onto his heels. "I'm afraid he has a talent for that."_

_As they stood there in companionable silence, her thoughts drifted to the future, against her will. Everything seemed destined to go pear-shaped before too much longer. Ever since she saw the Dark Mark at the Quidditch World Cup, she'd been worried that something malevolent and inescapable was on its way. Harry would be involved because he was _Harry,_ which meant she would be dragged into it as well. The Yule Ball had been her unofficial last chance to have a perfect evening as a normal girl whose life wasn't constantly in peril. As unrealistic as she knew that expectation to be, she still wanted it._

_"I was really looking forward to tonight," she said. "Stupid Ron."_

_"Hmm. Well, the night isn't over yet. Maybe we can salvage it."_

_Wrinkling her nose, she scuffed her shoe against the flagstone floor. "I doubt that."_

_"Aww, come on. What did you think would happen?"_

_"You'll make fun of me."_

_His face lit up with a mischievous grin, but he kept his tone as serious as a Weasley twin could manage. "Would I do such a thing?"_

_"Only on days ending in Y," she said, laughing when he began poking her shoulder again and again. "Oh, fine. I wanted to wear a pretty dress and dance with a handsome boy and just generally have a nice time. Nothing too exciting. I did that, but then Ron spoiled the memory entirely by being a prat about the whole thing."_

_"What else?"_

_"That's it."_

_"I don't believe you. There's something else."_

_With a grumble, she ran a finger along a crack in the windowsill, avoiding his questioning gaze. "I wanted__—__" her voice dropped to a whisper, "__—__I wanted to maybe have my first kiss."_

_The instant the words left her lips, she cringed. She'd known Fred Weasley for four years, and he had never be one to pass up an opportunity to tease someone. Giving him ammunition was foolhardy, at best._

_"Hmm." He tilted his head to the side and studied her for a few seconds before flicking his wand and muttering a spell. Her flannel pyjamas shimmered and transformed into a long, silky, midnight blue gown._

_"Wanna dance?" he asked, extending an arm with his palm held up._

_"What?" she said, still caught up in staring down at the dress._

_"_Dance_. You know, you hold onto someone else and move your feet to music. You must've read about it at some point." Lacing his fingers together with hers, he placed one of her hands on his shoulder and rested his own on her waist. "I've made it my personal mission to make your memory of this evening a good one. You already have the dress, designed exclusively by Monsieur Fred. Next comes the dancing."_

_"There's no music."_

_"Pfft. That hardly matters, but if you absolutely must have music, I can sing."_

_"I thought you were trying to make my night better, not worse."_

_Fred laughed. "Ouch! Well, we'll just have to dance silently. I refuse to astonish you with my vocal stylings after such a heartless insult. At least you have an exceedingly handsome partner."_

_With that, he twirled her around and around until her dizzy laughter rang through the hall. His already broad grin widened when a nearby portrait started humming a waltz. She imagined they looked more than a bit silly __—__ her in a formal evening gown and him in worn pyjama trousers and one of his old Weasley Christmas jumpers __—__ but it didn't seem to matter. She couldn't hold in her half-frightened giggle when he dipped her low enough for her hair to brush the ground._

_"That's more like it," he said. "You should always be smiling when you're dancing with a Weasley twin. No more tears wasted on my idiot brother tonight, yeah?"_

_Grinning and breathless, she nodded. He kept spinning her, making her wonder how Angelina managed to keep up with him all night._

_"Thanks," she said when the portrait's song came to an end. "My evening is officially salvaged."_

_"Excellent. Just one more thing."_

_Before she could begin to guess what he was plotting, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her full on the mouth. She froze, eyes wide open in surprise. Smiling against her lips at her response (or lack thereof), he pinched her side. With a belated gasp, she snapped out of her stupor and began to kiss him back._

_As first kisses went, it seemed decent to her inexperienced lips. Awkwardness and bumping noses abounded; and neither of them harboured any warm, fuzzy feelings for the other beyond friendship; but affection welled up in her chest with each brush of his soft lips. _

_Fred ended the kiss with an exaggerated "mwah" noise, smirking down at her. "There we go," he said. "All requirements fulfilled. How did I do?"_

_"Um..."_

_"Speechless? I have that effect on many women." He chuckled at the roll of her eyes this comment inspired and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Don't worry. Ron will come around eventually and see what's right in front of him. Look on the bright side: if he had an ounce of sense and had asked you to the ball before Viktor did, you would have probably gone your whole life not knowing what it was like to kiss me."_

_"Yes, however would I have managed that torment?" _

_"I don't know how any woman manages it. Come on, since I'm your fake date for the evening, I should be a gentleman and escort you back to the common room."_

-oOo-

Years later, when Fred died, Hermione clung to the memory of that night like a life preserver as grief swept her away. Even after he was gone, thinking of that unexpectedly beautiful night never failed to make her smile.

"I still have the transfigured dress," she said, smiling when George brushed a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "I never changed it back into pyjamas. I gave away the robes I wore to the actual Yule Ball in a silly post-war charity auction, but I don't think I could ever part with Monsieur Fred's dress."

George's expression softened, then abruptly shifted into outraged shock. "That rat bastard had insider information on our bet! Hmph. I win by default." Shaking a fist at the ceiling, he smiled at Hermione. "I never would've guessed that he snogged you. Why didn't you go a bit easier on us when you became a prefect? Was he _that_ bad?"

"Tsk. He was fine. Perfectly satisfactory. But it wasn't as though we fancied each other. I wasn't about to let you two prey on innocent little first years, even if Fred _did_ give me one perfect evening."

"Then he clearly didn't kiss you properly. If _I_ had kissed you, you would've fancied the hell out of me."

Hermione's face flooded with heat: a blush that remained blessedly colourless, thanks to the dim room. "I guess we'll never know if that's true, since I'm apparently male now," she whispered.

Cuddling closer to her, George planted a soft kiss on her cheek. "I'm glad you stalked me, Carl."

"Me too."

-oOo-

When Hermione dragged herself into George's kitchen the next morning, she found Lee sitting at the table with his head in his hands and his long dreadlocks falling over his face.

"Morning," he said, his voice groggy and thick with sleep. "Didn't realise you'd stayed the night." To punctuate the statement, he added a raised eyebrow and a hungover attempt at a grin.

"Yeah. I was a bit too drunk to apparate without splinching myself."

"Uh huh. So, tell me, why are you the only one who knows where George is?"

"We told you. I ran into him at a bookshop."

"Mm. I see."

After gulping down two glasses of water, Hermione rummaged through George's cupboards for something to take the edge off of her aching head and churning stomach.

"G'morning," George said through a yawn as he padded into the kitchen.

"George, you absolute _Muggle_," Hermione said. "No hangover relief potion?"

He laughed. "Afraid not. Here—" Reaching into a drawer, he produced a box of paracetamol, "—Muggle potions will have to do. Oh, by the way, Lee, Hermione's new name is Carl."

"Ugh," she said. "I was hoping you wouldn't remember that. Well, fine. From now on, I am going to refer to you as Tallulah."

"Suits you, mate," Lee said with a snort of laughter.

"Doesn't it just?" Hermione said. "Anyway, I should head home. Lee, it was nice to see you again."

"Same here, Carl."

"Oh, not you, too. Fine. If you're going to be that way, then you're Ethel now."

George grinned. "Suits you, mate."


	6. Muggle Studies

**Chapter 6: Muggle Studies**

"They're blue."

"Yes, they are. Well spotted."

"Why are they blue?"

Hermione snuggled deeper into the thick, puffy duvet that she'd stolen from George's bedroom. Rain trickled down the windows, chilling the air of his draughty little flat. The misty, drizzly weather that kept them huddled indoors only served to heighten the sense of nostalgia woven into the act of watching old cartoons. But for George's questions, she would've felt five years old again.

"Because that's just how it is," she said. "Smurfs are blue. Scooby Doo villains wear a mask. Jem is truly outrageous. It's the natural order of things."

Wriggling closer, he snatched a corner of the duvet for himself. "All right," he said, rubbing his chin. "That's fair enough. But is that blonde one the only girl of the lot?"

"Yeah, if memory serves. At least at this point in the series."

He snorted. "And my co-workers gave_ me_ strange looks when I asked them who the Smurfs were. One woman for a whole village of men? Who knew Muggles were so kinky?"

"It's not kinky, you pervert. It's Smurfy. And hush up. You have a lot more cartoons to watch if you want to blend in with the Muggles. Not to mention books to read."

"Aha! I knew you'd break out the books eventually."

"You asked me to help. Just be glad I'm not making you write essays. Yet."

Chuckling, he kicked off his shoes and propped his feet on the edge of the coffee table. Hermione let out a startled laugh when the duvet fell away to reveal his mismatched socks: one black, one baby pink.

"Why do you have one pink sock?" she asked.

"Oh, that." George shrugged. "Laundry mishap. My neighbour had the audacity to move away."

Hermione blinked. "What on earth does your neighbour have to do with anything?"

"She did my laundry for me."

"Why? Did you pay her?"

"Well, no. Not with money, at least." He waggled his eyebrows. "But she fancied the hell out of me, so..."

Her jaw dropped open. "George Weasley! Tell me you did _not_ trade sexual favours for a laundry service."

"I didn't!" Clutching his sides, he laughed until tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. "Oh, you should've seen your face. Priceless. I wish I had a camera. The last time you looked at me like that... oh, Merlin. I thought you were going to threaten to tell my mum on me again." Once he caught his breath, he nudged her ribs with his elbow. "No, Hermione. Rest assured, I didn't sell my body in exchange for clean clothes. There may have been... _implications_, though. Just a bit of flirting, with the suggestion that maybe someday..."

She groaned. "You're awful."

"Hey, I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to get out of housework. She liked the attention, so we both won. It was all perfectly harmless. Until she left, anyway. The bloody washing machine hates me."

"Did you read the instructions on the detergent?"

"Err, will you believe me if I say yes?"

"Not a chance. I've known you too long."

"Damn. I feared as much."

Springing to her feet, she tugged on his hand. "Come on. We'll still be able to see the TV from the kitchen. You can have two Muggle lessons in one: childhood cartoons with a side of laundry."

He grumbled. "Should've known you'd try to get me to do extra credit."

Hermione sat on the counter next to the washing machine, tapping her fingernails against the cabinets beneath her swinging legs. When George reentered the room, she couldn't see his face behind the enormous heap of dirty clothes in his arms. Without ceremony, he dumped them onto the linoleum floor.

"Right," she said. "You'll want to start by sorting them by colour. I'm guessing you skipped that step before. One pile for brights, one for darks, and one for whites."

He wrinkled his nose. "Mum never did that."

"Your mum uses magical washing powder. She doesn't have to worry about one red shirt turning the whole wash pink. Go on—" She clapped her hands, "—get to work. I'll supervise."

"Oh, yeah?" Kicking the laundry aside, he brushed his fingers over her knees and placed his lips next to her ear. "You sure I can't convince you to help?"

His deep voice and warm skin made something in the pit of her belly clench pleasantly, but she did her best to scoff and make her voice sound derisory. "Is this what you did to convince your neighbour?"

"Nah. I never had to touch her. Lots of smiling and innuendo did the trick."

Pressing her lips together to hold in a grin, she gave his shoulders a light shove. George didn't budge. He trailed his hands up to her hips, tickling the stripe of skin above her waistband and planting a loud, messy kiss on her cheek. An involuntary gasp of laughter burst from her mouth.

"Ooh, what if I pout and give you the sad, overworked house-elf look?" he said, sticking out his lower lip. "Is this doing anything for you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Just sort your laundry."

-oOo-

"Hmm," Hermione said, picking up a punnet of blueberries and holding it side-by-side with some blackberries. "Maybe if we mix these? And do they have any cranberries? It needs to be a bit tart. Maybe some lemon juice or something..."

George scratched his forehead. "I don't know. I don't think anything is going to come close to the flavour." Lowering his voice to a whisper to avoid being heard by the Muggles swarming around the supermarket, he added, "Can't we just use bimbleberries?"

"They're inedible unless cooked with your mum's methods, so if you still want me to teach you how to cook like a Muggle-"

"Yeah, yeah. I do. I just really fancy a slice of bimbleberry cake. It's my favourite."

"Hmm. Well, until we work something out, what about your mum's treacle tarts? That recipe will be easier to adapt."

"Maybe. I..."

His voice trailed off when someone off to Hermione's left gasped. There, standing next to the packets of crisps and holding a shopping basket full of tomatoes, bread, and chicken, was Angelina Johnson. Her shoulders sagged and tears glimmered in her eyes as George turned towards her, his movement revealing his missing ear.

"Babe?" a Muggle man said, rounding the corner. "Hey, you okay?"

"I... I'm fine," Angelina said, her lower lip wobbling just once before she regained her composure. "Just ran into some old school friends. Nice to see you again, George, Hermione."

With that, she grabbed her companion's hand and vanished as quickly as if she'd apparated. George's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around the shopping basket, his knuckles going bone white.

"Well, I'm sorted," Lee said, beaming at George and Hermione. He sauntered up the aisle with an armload of red, cellophane-wrapped boxes of condoms. "That's my shopping done for the week." Frowning at George, he added, "You all right, mate? You look like—"

"Lee," Hermione breathed, "shut up."

George's jaw clenched. For a few, stomach-sinking moments, Hermione thought he would lash out and hit something. Instead, he handed her the basket and let go of a ragged sigh.

"I don't really feel like a lesson today," he said. "Some other time."

Before she could begin to think of how to respond, he marched away.

"The hell was that about?" Lee said. "You going to go after him?"

"Yeah. I think so."

With a bit of juggling and only one dropped box, Lee managed to shift his mountain of condoms to one hand so he could pat her shoulder.

"Well, good luck, Carl," he said.

"Thanks."

After giving Lee the much-needed basket, she dashed out into the street and ran the few blocks to George's flat. Her rapid knock was met with no response, but the brass doorknob turned under her fingers without the aid of magic.

She found him sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, his elbows resting on his knees. Unsure if he wanted her there, she hovered in the doorway until he spoke.

"Sorry for storming out. Guess I wanted those bimbleberries more than I realised."

"George..."

"Just c'mere, would you?"

That was the only encouragement she needed to all but tackle him with a tight hug, as if she thought she could squeeze him until there was no room left for sadness. Somehow they ended up sprawled on top of the mess of pillows, sheet, and duvet. His head rested on her chest, his ear pressed just over the steady thrum of her heart. Untold minutes trickled by in silence. Just as she began to drift off to sleep, his shoulders shook — not with tears, as she originally thought, but with laughter.

"What's so funny?" she said.

"I was just thinking of the first time we ended up here — how I told you that I only snuggle with friends who have breasts."

She cleared her throat. Given his position, the action made his head bounce.

"And?" she said.

"And I'm not going to say. You'll make me move if I do."

Swatting his arm, she tried to swallow her responding chuckle without much success.

"I should probably get home," she said, a bittersweet ache building in her chest when his grip tightened. "Unless you want me to stay?"

"Well, you _do_ make a pretty good cushion." Lifting his head, he shot her a half-grin. "Yeah. Stay."


	7. A Night Bright as Day

**Chapter 7: A Night Bright As Day**

"I didn't say I didn't like it," George said as he held the door of the theatre open for Hermione, letting in a wave of sticky, sweltering air. "Well, okay, maybe I did say that. It just seemed unrealistic."

"In what way?" she asked. Her shoes clicked on the warm pavement as she preceded him and Lee out of the building.

Lee quirked an eyebrow. "When was the last time you were so overwhelmed with emotion that you burst into song?"

"Tuesday. Malfoy left me alone at work for an entire hour, and I felt inspired to sing about the peace and quiet." She laughed. "Okay, not really, but the breaking into song bit isn't supposed to be realistic. It's just meant to be entertaining."

Lee shook his head. "Muggles are so strange."

"I'm not convinced regular Muggles really go to these things," George said. "Not the blokes, anyway. I told a few people at work I was going. They were surprised when I told them you were coming along and that Hermione and I aren't going out."

Stroking his chin, Lee hummed in agreement. "I can see how that'd be the only reason for a guy to go to one of these things – to get some girl to shag him."

"Exactly."

Laughing, Hermione swatted each of their shoulders in turn. "You two are impossible."

"And that's why you love us," Lee said. "Well, kids, this is where I leave you. I'm going to head to the Leaky."

After saying their goodbyes to Lee, Hermione and George kept wandering through Muggle London by some silent agreement. He grabbed her arm as they were nearly forced to drift apart from each other due to passing through a gauntlet of excitable American tourists. Even when the pavement in front of them was free of people, he didn't let go. Hermione smiled.

Tilting her head back, she looked up at the outline of the Queen's Theatre against the fading pink and orange streaks in the evening sky. The mottled red and purple sign that bore a frozen Muggle portrait of young Cosette and the words "Les Misérables" seemed more like a continuation of the sunset than a billboard.

Sighing, she turned her attention back to George. "I suppose we should make our way to the Tube," she said, though she wasn't ready for the night to end.

"Nah. I don't want to go home yet."

"Oh? What do you want to do?"

"I'm not sure." Smiling down at her, he slid his hand along her arm and tentatively laced his fingers together with hers. "Let's just walk."

She knew she should refuse. She had a full day of work ahead of her the next day, and needed all the sleep she could get.

Instead, her lips decided to form the words, "All right."

His hand refused to relinquish its grip on hers as they wandered together from street to street. No one knew them in this place. They were free to do whatever they liked, pretend to be whomever they chose in the sea of anonymity that was Central London.

With its bright lights and cars and noise, Hermione felt like Muggle London was at the centre of everything. Even the thick, oppressive summer heat seemed like a curious sort of Muggle magic, though she knew it was just as hot in Diagon Alley. And at the centre of the centre was her, hand-in-hand with George.

"What do you want to do after your job is over?" he asked suddenly. "It can't last forever, right? Eventually, you'll have helped all of the orphans and house-elves and disenfranchised werewolves and whatever else was affected by the war."

She furrowed her brow in thought. "I don't know, to be honest."

"Really? I thought you'd have some sort of master plan – most likely involving spew."

"S.P.E.W, and yes, I would like to continue with that."

"Hmm. D'you reckon you'll continue creating stuff for the shop with Perce?"

"Maybe, though I think he has his heart set on being Minister for Magic."

George snorted. "Really? You think he stands a chance, now?"

"Of course he does." She gave his hand a soft squeeze. "Most politicians have rather dubious pasts. It's practically a job requirement."

"That's true enough. Hmm. Maybe his conduct during the war won't be enough, actually. I mean, he came back to the Order's side at the end, right? Nah, he needs something truly scandalous."

Chuckling, Hermione tugged him down a side street to explore. "I'm sure you can help him think of some way to create a past that needs hiding."

"Damn right I can."

"Well, you must promise you'll still remember when you're the Official Mischief Assistant to the Minister or similar and are all famous and important."

"Err, Hermione, you might not have noticed, but _you're _rather famous and important. You're on a Chocolate Frog card, for Merlin's sake."

"Ah, yes," she said, grinning. "Ron considered that our finest hour."

"As he should. Perce used to collect them, you know. Chocolate Frog cards, I mean."

"Did he really?" she asked. Little Percy collecting Chocolate Frog cards? The mind boggled. She'd always suspected that he was born with an innate longing to be an adult.

"Who do you think got Ron's collection started?" George said. "Perce gave him boxes and boxes of the things when he went to Hogwarts. He thought he was far too mature for such childish things since he was going to school."

"Ah. That sounds more like the Percy I know."

Grinning, George added, "He still has a couple of them hidden away in his old Hogwarts trunk. I don't think he could bear to part with Ptolemy or Agrippa."

Somehow, they ended up hiking around London until dawn, alternating between chatting at a dizzying speed and basking in the comfortable silences. Hermione's feet ached and her legs felt like jelly by the time they managed to find somewhere to buy orange juice and blueberry muffins for an impromptu breakfast.

When they reached Regent's Park at almost six o'clock, their only company consisted of squirrels, pigeons, and a smattering of joggers. Instead of pleasant, misty early morning pastels, the sky was that dark slate colour that always appears right before a sudden summer downpour. George and Hermione had no sooner finished off the last of their orange juice than it began raining – fat, splattering drops that promised to soak them in a matter of minutes.

George cursed under his breath. Hermione laughed.

Holding her arms out and placing one foot in front of the other as though she was walking a tightrope, she resisted his efforts to rush to the shelter of a nearby tree.

"A little fall of rain can hardly hurt me now," she sang in a quiet, off-key voice, shooting him a teasing smile.

He laughed. "Well, you aren't in the same situation that girl was when she sang that. Good thing, too. It'd spoil a perfectly good morning if you went and..."

His voice trailed off, the word "died" never making it to his lips.

"Ah, that's true," Hermione said with false brightness. She worried her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, then sang, "In the rain, the pavement shines like silver."

"Which part is that from?

"Her solo when she's pining over Marius. Longing for someone you can't have is at least marginally more cheerful, right?"

"Oh, yes. It's a barrel of fun." Pausing, he looked down at his clothes and let out a gasp of laughter. "Hermione, I'm drenched."

"You're also too tall," she said, climbing onto a bench and standing up so she loomed over him. "There, that's better. My neck was starting to get stiff from looking up at you all night." Resting her hands on his shoulders, she smiled. "And you're less intimidating from up here."

"Huh? Why would I intimidate you?"

Her sleep-deprived brain conspired with her mouth, making it form the words, "I think most people were at least a little intimidated by you when we were in school."

"And you still are, even now?" Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her to the ground. His hands lingered, drifting down to her hips. "Well, knock it off. Don't be."

Something fluttered in her chest, her heart beating hummingbird-fast. Her gaze followed a drop of rainwater as it fell from a lock of his hair and trickled over freckled skin.

"I'm not," she said.

"You'd better not be. I thought you were made of sterner stuff than that. I'm harmless! Well, okay, maybe not completely harmless, but you can take a little prank now and then, can't you, Carl?"

And, just like that, whatever had been building deep inside of her deflated. Whatever George said beyond that was white noise, blending in with the rush of rain.

"Let's go," she said.

"All right. Ready to go home?"

Hermione swallowed hard. "Yes."

* * *

_**A/N: **__The lines "A little fall of rain can hardly hurt me now" and "In the rain, the __pavement shines like silver" are obviously from the _Les Misérables _musical. The __chapter title is also pulled from it. Some of you might recognise bits of this chapter from another of my deleted fics: Igniting the Sea, which was a Percy/Hermione. I still have plans to edit and repost that one someday, but I liked this scene so much that I couldn't resist altering it to fit George and Hermione. :)_


	8. All the Stars in the Sky

**Chapter 8: All the Stars in the Sky**

Propping her feet on George's coffee table, Hermione crossed her arms and shook her head.

"Aww, come on," Lee said. "Even you have to admit some of these are absolute classics. What about this one?" Leaning closer, he gazed into her eyes. "If you were a Dementor, I'd commit murder just for the chance to kiss you."

George chuckled, but Hermione managed to smother her own laughter by biting the inside of her cheek.

"No," she said. "There's no way it'd work. Not on any woman with a shred of self-respect."

"Pfft. Self-respect. Who said anything about that?" Lee shot her a lopsided grin. "What if I dressed up like a pirate and said, 'Prepare to be boarded'?"

"I reckon that'd end with you genuinely needing an eye patch," George said. "You may as well stop trying, mate. I have the best chat up line of all time. No way you can top it. Hermione, can I borrow your hand?"

Shrinking back against a cushion, she held her arms out of his reach. "This isn't that mansion and pool trick, is it? The one where you pretend to read my palm, say you see a mansion in my future, and then spit and say, "There's the pool'?"

"Of course not," he replied with a sly grin. "If you ever have my saliva anywhere on your person, I promise you'll enjoy it. This is spit-free. Well, unless you are so overcome you decide to snog me. Hmm, where did I put that..." After shuffling through a teetering mountain of papers on a side table, he unearthed a purple marker. "Aha. Here we go. Hand, Hermione? I _could_ demonstrate on Lee, but this is a very, very good line. It's risky. There's a strong chance the recipient will fall madly in love with me, so you can understand why I'd rather not use it on Lee."

Against her better judgment, she allowed him to cradle her hand in his own. Down the middle of her palm, he drew several squiggly lines. On one side, he sketched some sort of animal. At least, she thought it was an animal. Those two looping things almost looked like ears.

"Okay, this—" he pointed to the squiggles with the cap of the marker, tickling her hand, "—is a big, scary river. Lots of white water rapids, rocks, and probably a few frightening beasts lurking beneath the surface. And this—" he pointed at the animal, "—is a cute, innocent little bunny. Now, the bunny needs to get from this side of the river to that side. How is he going to make it across in one piece?"

"Hop?" Hermione said.

"Oh, come on. You can do better than that. A teensy rabbit hopping over a wide river? I don't think so."

"Well, if it's to scale—"

"It's not. You have such tiny hands. In order to draw the full magnificence of the river I reckon I'd need to use your whole arm. Maybe even a leg or two. Suffice it to say, if the bunny tried to hop across, he would fall in and drown horribly."

"He could build a raft," she said.

"With no opposable thumbs? Not bloody likely. It'd get smashed to pieces on the rocks, even if he did manage it. Next guess?"

"He could bribe one of the river beasts to carry him across," Lee said.

"Oi, I wasn't asking you," George said with a laugh. "And that won't work, anyway. Bunnies don't have any sort of currency. The beastie would much rather just eat him."

Hermione scowled. "Am I actually going to be able to solve this riddle?"

"Err. I guess it's possible. Not likely, mind you, but you never know."

"Bah. I give up. How does the bunny get across the river?"

Smiling, George moved her hair aside and placed his lips next to her ear. As he squeezed her hand, he lowered his voice to a whisper and said, "I have no idea, love. I just wanted to hold your hand."

She did not blush. She_ didn't_, no matter what Lee said to the contrary.

-oOo-

Every time Hermione turned a page or grabbed a file, the faded remnants of George's artwork caught her eye. She didn't realise she was staring at it until Draco invited himself around the cubicle wall and frowned at her.

"Why are you smiling so much?" he asked.

"Hmm?" Shrugging, she pressed her palm against her leg to hide the drawing. "No reason."

"Yeah, right. Someone have you all hot and bothered? Well, aside from me, of course."

"You certainly bother me, but in no way do you make me hot."

He perched on the edge of her desk — right on top of the file she'd been pretending to sort through. "It's a secret, then? A married man?"

"What? No!"

"Is he hideous? I bet that's it. Anyone willing to go out with you would have to be. It's certainly been the case up until now, hasn't it? Krum's famous, at least, but just look at Weasley."

Unimpressed, she met his smirk with a level glare. "Ron's famous as well, now, and he's not hideous. Neither is Viktor. I don't think you want to play the comparing exes game. I mean, just look at Pansy."

"Hmm. Fair point."

Hermione couldn't help it. When his mouth contorted into a grimace, as though asking his younger self what he had been thinking, she laughed.

"Why do you care if I'm having an affair with Quasimodo, anyway?" she said.

"Quasiwhato?"

"Muggle reference."

"Oh. Should've known." With a lazy stretch and a yawn, he shrugged one shoulder. "I'm bored."

There were dozens of fellow employees for him to pester, but Hermione suspected she was the only one who would deign to speak to him. Funny, considering she had more reasons hold a grudge against him than anyone else in their department.

"Ah," she said. "You could always do some work. Revolutionary idea, I know, but I hear it's what some people do when at their place of employment. Even when it's forced employment."

He pretended to consider this for a few moments before shaking his head. "That won't do. Not at all. Any other suggestions?"

Hermione groaned.

-oOo-

Darkness blanketed George's bedroom, interrupted only by a few faint white sparks from Hermione's wand. Soft music swirled through the blackness, heavy with nostalgia: a mix CD of Muggle music from her childhood that she'd cobbled together for him. Songs he should've known, if he'd grown up as a Muggle.

"Hey, I know this one," George whispered as sparks shifted into the shape of Orion's belt on his ceiling.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm." Pausing, he sipped his beer. "That's Medea's arse crack."

"You're impossible."

"You wouldn't have me any other way." Leaning onto his side, he propped himself up with one elbow. "D'you wanna sleep here tonight?"

She wasn't even tipsy. No reason not to Apparate home, and it was still early enough that she could catch the Tube. And Lee wasn't there, snoring away on the sofa, so there was no reason for her to sleep in George's bed.

"Yeah," she said.

Fifteen minutes later found her huddled beneath George's duvet, wearing the t-shirt and boxers of his that she'd claimed as her pyjamas. Her mouth tingled from the cinnamon flavoured toothpaste he used. Weeks ago, she'd bought a spare toothbrush to keep at his flat.

Settling down on his side of the bed, George nestled his body behind hers like they were a pair of spoons. With one arm slung around her waist, he laced his fingers together with hers. Something bright and fluttering thrummed through her chest, made her feel as though she was one of the magical stars that lingered on the ceiling.

"G'night," he said.

"Night."

-oOo-

When Hermione woke up, her mind knew it was morning, but the rest of her body lived in denial. The dim sunlight kissing the windowsill allowed her to just barely make out the familiar shape of George's wardrobe, his door, his arm. The air outside the duvet was chilly, worlds away from the heat provided by his body.

She tried to roll over, to see if he was awake, but he mumbled something against her shoulder, held her tighter, and pulled the duvet over both of their heads.

"George?"

"Mmph."

"You awake?"

"Not willingly."

Wriggling away from him, she tugged at the hand that he'd splayed across her stomach. As appealing as the thought of staying in bed until noon was, doing so with morning breath didn't appeal — especially not when George was so close. Amidst his grumbled protests, she wriggled out of his grasp and padded across the hall to the bathroom.

Her own face took her by surprise. The night before, the mirror had been covered. Now, the dingy sheet that had shrouded it was nowhere to be seen. The only thing obstructing the glass was a little square of paper, tucked into one corner of the frame: a still Muggle photograph of George, Hermione, and Lee, taken several weeks before. After much fiddling with the timer function on George's new camera, they'd set it on top of his TV and piled onto his sofa. At the last second, Lee had chosen to throw himself across Hermione and George's laps. All three of them had their mouths open and their eyes almost closed from an overabundance of laughter.

Her boys. Why did she always seem to collect them in pairs? Pressing a hand over her heart, she smiled.

Maybe Fred knew what he was doing when he sent her on this mission.

* * *

_**A/N: **__Apologies, again, for the long wait between updates. I'm hoping to get back to every other week now, but we'll see!_

_A few of you might recognise bits of the chat up lines scene. It was part of a George/Hermione/Fred fic that I wrote ages ago, which I'm not sure I'll ever get around to editing and reposting._


	9. The Storm

**Chapter 9: The Storm**

George's home was dark: shades drawn, lights off. With a bit more dust, it would've looked like the flat above Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes — like it hadn't been touched in months. Frowning, Hermione stepped over a wayward cushion on the living room floor. Was he asleep? It was a Saturday, sure, but it was almost noon.

"George?" she said. "Are you home?"

"I'm back here."

She found him in his bedroom, lying in a nest of rumpled duvet. The shattered remains of a wireless set littered the floor, along with a discarded wand.

Oh, no.

"Hey," she whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. Any further comments froze on her lips. What _could_ she say? Nothing would be enough. So, she stuck with the simple greeting, adding in gentle fingers combing through his hair.

When George finally spoke, it was in a voice she hardly recognised — gravelly and harsh.

"I nicked it from the workroom," he said. "Since it was the one you used, I thought maybe..." His voice trailed off, his puffy eyes clenching shut.

With her heart thudding in her ears, begging her to get this right, she kicked off her shoes and lay down next to him. One of her hands found its way to his cheek. As he leant into the touch, their legs twined together. A quaking pretzel of a broken boy and a lost girl. Fingers brushed her hips, held on too tight.

"All I got was the Weird Sisters and Celestina Sodding Warbeck." George shook his head. "I don't get it. He talked to _you_."

"He wants you to heal." It didn't seem like an adequate answer, but it was all she had. "Do you honestly think you'd be able to move on if he did speak to you? You'd chain yourself to the wireless set, waiting for it to happen again and hating every moment that didn't bring him back."

He laughed. Sort of. "Yeah, that'd be a real change."

"George..."

"Sorry. I didn't mean that. I don't hate every moment. That time you let me use your tits as a pillow was brilliant. Patronus worthy."

"George Weasley. Honestly." Smiling, she wriggled towards the headboard and held her arms open. "The things I do for you. C'mere."

This time, his laugh was almost genuine. It came out muffled behind his hand as he rested his good ear over her heart.

"You're slipping," he said. "Can't believe you fell for that one."

As they lapsed into silence, his breaths slowed and deepened. Unsure if he had fallen asleep, Hermione spoke in a whisper.

"He'd never shut up if he thought it'd help you heal, you know. Maybe someday he'll surprise you with your very own Potterwatch broadcast, but not now. Not yet. Not while you're living a half-life in a boring flat with Lee and me as your only friends."

"You reckon?"

"It's what he fought for. What we _all_ fought for. The chance for a better life. And what kind of a life is it without the surviving Weasley twin playing pranks on the whole of the Wizarding World? If you never slip another poor, unsuspecting child a Canary Cream or Ton-Tongue Toffee, well then Voldemort may as well have won."

With a soft, wet laugh and a shake of his head, George tilted his head up to kiss her cheek.

"You're never going to quit bossing me around, are you?"

"It's what I'm here for. Why do you think Fred contacted _me_?"

"He couldn't have sent someone a bit easier? A good shag would—"

His words cut off with a laugh when Hermione swatted him in the face with a pillow. Nudging him off of her, she sat up and dusted her hands together.

"Tidy yourself up," she said. "We're going out."

"We are? Where?"

"I haven't decided yet. Somewhere Muggle, of course. We'll take the Tube."

-oOo-

Camden Market teemed with people. To keep from getting separated, Hermione held George's hand as they wound their way through the various stalls.

"Hmm," she said, pausing to examine a striped throw that reminded her of the wallpaper in the twins' Diagon Alley flat. "I think this one for the living room, definitely."

"Are you redecorating?"

"No. _We_ are redecorating. I'm buying you some very belated housewarming gifts."

"You don't have to do that."

"Well, obviously I don't have to. I'm doing it because I want to. Don't worry, I'm just buying two throws — one for the sofa and one for your bed. I'll let you pay for the artwork."

"Artwork, eh?"

"If I have to stare at your blank walls much longer, I'm going to start falling asleep when I visit." Wrinkling her nose, she picked up a second throw. "It's high time you make your home look like you actually _live_ there. Now, do you like these?"

After selecting throws and art, George and Hermione wandered through the streets of London arm in arm, pleasantly full from the falafel wraps they had for lunch. Their pockets were stuffed with their magically shrunken purchases.

As they started up Primrose Hill, a sudden, torrential summer rain sent everyone around them scrambling for shelter. Instead of agreeing to George's request to step into a nearby pub, Hermione took a flying leap into a puddle and sent water splashing all over him. Laughing and ignoring his shouted threat of revenge, she ran up the hill. Within seconds, he caught up and tackled her to the ground.

"Hi there, Hermione," he said, grinning. "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"

Barely able to speak through her fit of giggles, she squirmed beneath him. "Get up!"

"I'm quite cosy right here, thank you." Dipping his head, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Y'know, this is the second time you've kept me out in the rain like this. If you wanted to have a wet t-shirt contest, you could've just asked."

Cold water seeped from the muddy grass into her clothes, plastering the fabric to her back and legs. She couldn't draw a full breath, thanks to the combined forces of stomach-aching giggles and George's crushing weight. Rainwater dripped into her eyes.

One slow smile from him, and everything else became nothing more than a murmur in he background. Hermione's focus narrowed on his lips, close to hers.

Laughter slid into quick, shallow breaths. As she watched his gaze flit from her eyes to her mouth and back up again, every tired word she'd ever read about hearts pounding, worlds stopping, and butterflies dancing in stomachs raced through her mind. Racing heart: check. World screeching to a halt: check. Fluttering in her belly: oh, definitely. George shifted closer.

Oh, God. He was going to _kiss_ her.

Oh, God. She _wanted _him to kiss her.

Their noses touched. If she moved her head just a few inches, his lips would meet hers. All she had to do was drum up the courage. Simple. People had first kisses every day. She'd done it before, hadn't she?

George's weight vanished. Standing up, he cleared his throat.

"We should probably head back," he said.

Well. So much for that.


	10. Happy Birthday

**Chapter 10: Happy Birthday**

Lavender drank Firewhisky like it was a competitive sport. She downed three shots, slamming each glass on the table before turning to Hermione and saying, "Good birthday so far?"

Hermione shrugged. "Yeah, it's been nice."

Her party was in full swing. Harry and Ginny danced together in a way that would have made any of her brothers hit him if they noticed, and Luna... well, Luna wasn't dancing _with_ Ron so much as she was dancing _at_ him. The other guests congregated around the bar, fetching more drinks. This left Hermione alone at the table with Lavender.

"You sure?" Lavender said. "You've been kind of quiet."

For a moment — one shameful, alcohol-fuelled moment — Hermione considered asking Lavender for advice on the George situation. Lavender had, after all, spent many hours in their dorm with Parvati, dissecting the behaviour of boys.

Then Lavender kept talking.

"I haven't seen that look on your face since sixth yea—oh! Is this about that Muggle bloke? That 'secret lover' one? Is he going out with someone else?"

"Um. Something like that."

Nothing like that, actually, but Hermione didn't want to reveal the true story. Not with Lavender and her big mouth listening.

"That bastard." Lavender yanked her into a gardenia-scented hug, her words beginning to slur. "Well, we need to put a smile on your face. I don't care _who_ is snogging some little tart. You are in Happy Birthday Land and you will enjoy yourself. Come on, dance with me. You'll feel better."

To Hermione's surprise, she did end up smiling. Lavender bounced with her around the dance floor until Hermione couldn't tell if she was giddy from the Firewhisky, the spinning, or some combination of the two.

"See?" Lavender said with a giggle. "That's more like it. Want another drink when I get back from the loo?"

"Why not?"

As Lavender scurried away, Ron escaped Luna's dancing to twirl Hermione around until her feet lifted off of the floor. She shrieked, half in elation, half in fear, and squeezed him tight.

"Hey," he said as he set her down, both of them grinning and out of breath. "Did I tell you happy birthday yet?"

"You did, and thank you."

"Having a good time?"

She nodded. "It's improving."

"That's good. Listen, err, I have a question, but first, promise you won't get angry and hit me or anything."

"Why would I be angry?"

"Hell if I know. I just operate under the assumption that pretty much anything I say has the potential to piss you off. Anyway, it's about this 'secret lover' of yours. It's... it's not _Perce_, is it?"

She did hit him — a light swat on the shoulder, accompanied by a gasp of laughter.

"Ron! You can't be serious. Percy is the one who told you about seeing 'secret lover' on my phone."

"Yeah, but that could've been to throw me off the trail."

"Throw you off the—you're crazy. When did you develop such an imagination?"

Scratching the back of his neck, he raised one shoulder. "I dunno. You're always hanging around him, and talking about stuff you've done with him, and you invited him to your party, and—"

"We_ work_ together — at the Ministry and at the shop. And we're friends. That's it."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

A sigh passed through his pursed lips. "Thank Merlin. I mean, you and one of my brothers? Can you imagine? It'd be too weird."

Something sank within her. Mumbling an apology, she made her escape from Ron. When she reached the table that was circled by chairs wearing their jackets, she found Draco sitting there, sipping a Gillywater.

"Hey, Granger," he said. "Happy birthday."

"How did you know it was my birthday?"

"It's on the office calendar." With that, he produced a large blue envelope from his cloak pocket. "I've been waiting for it, actually. I was going to give this to you on Monday, but when I saw you here I popped home to grab it."

For a full minute, Hermione stared at the card, considering whether she should check it for curses. When Draco shot her a challenging look, she inched her finger under the flap, half-afraid it would contain bubotuber pus or something else equally unpleasant — like one of her own inventions from the shop.

In the end, she needn't have worried. It was just a card.

A sloppy drawing of a bucktoothed beaver decorated the front. A mane of frizzy fake hair was glued to the top of its head — so huge, it nearly hit her in the face as it unfurled. Draco must have used a charm on the envelope similar to the one on her trusty old beaded bag. Upon opening the card, she was treated to a noise that sounded suspiciously like large teeth chewing through the trunk of a tree. The words "Happy birthday, Beaver" were spelled out in wood-grain letters.

"Thanks, I think," she said with a laugh.

Maybe it was because he was being halfway decent to her on her birthday, or maybe it was because she knew he wouldn't sugarcoat anything to avoid hurting her feelings, but whatever the reason behind the next words out of her mouth, they ended up making her night far more bizarre.

"Can I ask you for some advice? Mind you, I'm only doing this because you're, well, here. Though maybe that's better. I don't think I'd want to follow Lavender's advice in this situation."

Lavender would probably tell Hermione to throw herself at George and buy him tacky jewellery, come to think of it.

Steepling his fingers together, Draco rested his elbows on the table. For a fleeting second, Hermione wondered if he'd ever deigned to watch an episode of _The Simpsons_; in that position, he looked very much like a younger Mr. Burns with hair.

"Hmm," he said. "As long as you promise we will return to sniping at each other on Monday, then fine. I need our blind hatred to get me through the tedium of work."

"Of course. See, there's this guy—"

"Do I know him?"

"Yes. Don't interrupt. Anyway, he just thinks of me as one of his mates. He doesn't even see me as a female. Well, he flirts with me a lot, but he flirts with everyone. It doesn't mean anything to him. I've known him since I was a kid, but we didn't always get on that well. We used to argue quite a lot, actually—"

If Hermione had been looking at his face, she would have noticed his slow-dawning expression of horror as her explanation stretched out.

"Granger, I'm gay."

"Huh?"

"I'm _gay_."

"Well, okay, but what does that have to do with—oh! You thought I was talking about _you_?" Irrepressible laughter roared through her body, leaving her coughing and gasping for air. Once she was able to speak through her giggles, she added, "Oh, God. Don't worry. I don't fancy you. Not all. No offence or anything, but just... _no_."

"Hmph. Likewise."

"_Anyway_, I already suspected you were gay. I saw you snogging John Bones in the break room once, so that was a pretty big clue."

"Oh." Two spots of bright pink appeared on Draco's cheeks. He cleared his throat. "Right. Carry on, then."

"Well," she said, suppressing another chuckle at his expense, "I don't know what to do. I waited years for Ron to see me as a girl, and by the time he finally did, the spark had faded. I don't want that to happen again. This guy isn't really ready for a serious relationship, and I don't want to risk spoiling our friendship, but I... I think I really like him."

"That's it? Fucking hell. If you want something, go for it instead of whining like a sodding Hufflepuff. Just come out and say it. Oh, and speaking of coming out and saying things..." He gave her a somewhat pleading look as his voice trailed off.

"Don't worry; I won't tell anyone. I didn't think you'd be marching in any pride parades anytime soon."

"Good. Ah, your friend is coming back." He sneered in Lavender's direction. "Guess I'll be leaving, then. Oh, and by the way, your hair looks a fright. I nearly got you a gift certificate for a makeover for your birthday, but I fear the amount it would have cost to get someone to tame that wild beast was beyond even my means." With that, he stalked off into the throng of dancers, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

More than ever, she wanted to talk to Fred again. He would know what to do.

She was still mulling over Draco's words (and only half listening to Lavender's tipsy rambling) when the rest of her friends came back to the table with a familiar, dreadlocked wizard in tow.

"Look what we found!" Ron said, grinning and slapping Lee on the back.

Lee shot Hermione a quick wink as he sank into the chair to her right. "I thought you'd be out with your other half tonight," he whispered in her ear once everyone else was absorbed in their own conversations.

"I don't have an other half."

Before Lee had a chance to do more than grin, Harry passed around shots of Firewhisky to everyone and proposed a toast to the birthday girl. As everyone raised their glasses in Hermione's direction, Lee's eyes widened.

"You should have told us," he said in a hushed tone.

"Yeah, I know. It's too late now, though."

"We'll see about that."


	11. Paper Moon

**Chapter 11: Paper Moon**

Hermione sank into her chair, trying to hide behind a menu as George and Lee belted out a marvellously off-key rendition of 'Happy Birthday.'

"You've been very naughty, Miss 'I Didn't Want to Make a Fuss,' so you'll have no birthday spankings from me," George said once they'd finally finished the song.

"And that's supposed to be a punishment, is it?" she asked.

Her actual reason for not telling George about her birthday had been so silly, she hardly wanted to own up to it, even in the privacy of her own mind. She'd wanted to see if he would remember on his own. A ridiculous test, really. Something straight out of Lavender's arsenal.

"Of course it is. I have your birthday on my calendar now, so if you're very well-behaved you _might_ get some next year."

"I can hardly wait."

"If you two are quite finished," Lee said with a grin, "I believe presents are customary on birthdays."

The gift he produced from beneath the table looked as if he'd wrapped it with his feet. The brightly coloured paper had jagged edges, and the whole thing was covered with enough tape to stretch from one end of Diagon Alley to the other and back again. Twice.

"You didn't have to get me anything," Hermione said.

Lee scoffed. "Just open the damn thing."

She did so, slowly. Working through the mounds of tape almost required the use of her wand. Inside, she found six vials of Hangover Relief Potion and a box of Honeyduke's chocolates.

"To keep at George's," Lee said, gesturing at the potion. "Just in case, since he's such a sodding Muggle. I've charmed it so he can't nick any."

"Thanks," Hermione said with a laugh.

"I do not get hangovers, sir," George, sticking his nose up in his best impersonation of Percy.

"Right." Lee chuckled. "You forget I shared a dorm with you for nearly seven years, mate."

"Yeah, yeah." George produced a gift from his coat pocket. "Open mine now, Carl."

Hermione expected a book. It was what people usually gave her, and the present was the right shape. Underneath the inappropriately Christmas themed paper (where had he found that in _September_?), she found a black velvet box. Inside that was a silver necklace with a delicate, owl-shaped pendant.

"I was going to give it to you for Christmas," George said. "Saw it when we were in Camden, and I went back to get it after you'd gone home."

Beaming at him, Hermione fastened the chain around her neck. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

"No problem. It reminded me of you."

"Really? Why?"

"Don't you remember the first time we met? You were helping Neville search for his toad on the Hogwarts Express, and when you opened the door our compartment, Alicia's owl swooped down and got its legs caught in your hair."

"Oh, my God. I can't believe you remember that."

"Like I could forget. You made quite the impression. Eleven years old, a demented bird flapping around your head, and you _scolded_ the bloody thing." George shook a finger at the necklace in what Hermione suspected was a far-too-accurate imitation of her eleven-year-old self. "That's what you get for dive bombing innocent people, Mr. Owl. Now you're stuck, and it serves you right. I hope this teaches you a lesson. And if you don't stop pulling my hair, I'm going to write to your mother."

"I did not say that!"

The scowl shifted into a lopsided grin. "Might be mixing up other memories with that last part. I reckon you _would've_ written to his mum, though, if you'd had her address."

Hermione gave him a half-hearted shove that somehow turned into a hug. "Thanks," she said again.

Laughter rumbled through his chest as he brushed a kiss over her temple. He rested his hands on her hips, his thumbs rubbing light circles on her sides. "You're welcome, love."

-oOo-

"Well?" Draco said, propping his elbows on the cubicle wall.

Hermione spared him only the briefest of glances before returning to her work. "Well, what?"

"Did you drop the Hufflepuff act?"

"Aren't we supposed to be back to bickering now that it's Monday? Wasn't that the deal?"

"Oh, right."

With that, he disappeared into his own cubicle. After a few minutes, Hermione smelt something that usually didn't belong in an office: a metallic sort of burning. A strange, intermittent whooshing noise accompanied it.

For the first time ever, she was the one to peer over the cubicle wall.

"What are you doing?" she asked when she discovered him hunched over his desk, welding a chain of paperclips together with his wand.

"Fashioning a poking device. If I annoy you while we talk, it counts as a fight. There. All done."

Standing up, he extended the now rigid string of paperclips and jabbed her shoulder at half-second intervals. "Now," he said with a satisfied nod, "did you tell him?"

"No."

He poked her harder. "Hufflepuff."

"It's complicated. I used to go out with his brother, and he and I are still friends, and he was completely horrified by the idea of me being with one of his brothers, and—"

"Losing interest."

Hermione shrugged. "I told you before, I'm not sure this guy is even in a place where he's ready for a relationship." This elicited a particularly harsh prod. "Ow! Will you stop that?"

"No." His sneer slowly morphed into a contemplative look. "Who is he, anyway? It's not Percy Weasley, is it?"

"No. You wouldn't know him. He's a Muggle."

Best to keep her story straight. The chances of Draco talking with any of the Weasleys was slim, but better safe than sorry.

"A Muggle? A _Muggle_?" Poking device cast aside, he stared at her. "Granger, I know you're just a Mud—" He slapped a hand over his mouth, cutting off the almost-slur. The conditions of his parole barred him from using hate speech at his place of compulsory employment.

There it was: the reason Draco and Hermione would never be friends. The reason he would never _let_ himself be her friend. He might trust her enough to share a personal secret and think she was clever enough to act as his verbal sparring partner, but deep down, he still saw her as _lower_ in some way. Hermione wasn't sure if she should feel sad, angry, or indifferent that it seemed like they would only ever be coworkers who exchanged barbs and occasionally had meaningful conversations. They would be acquaintances, she supposed. Their interactions would be confined to gossip over cubicle walls, greeting cards, and brief chats when they met in public. A polite mask to conceal his true thoughts.

Maybe it was better this way. Maybe she wanted to keep hating him too, just a little.

Clearing his throat, Draco stared at his fingers as they swept back and forth along the edge of his desk. "I know you didn't grow up in the Wizarding World, but come on. You have a wand, don't you? Just Confund the ex. Or Obliviate your relationship from his memory. Problem solved."

She rolled her eyes, torn between laughing and frowning. "Get back to work."

-oOo-

Hermione stretched her arms overhead, yawning as she wriggled closer to George. For the past hour, they'd been curled up on his bed, half-dozing in between hugs. He had yet to explain why he'd rang and asked her to come over in the first place.

"You okay?" she asked, melting the silence that had settled over them like the hush of snow.

"Yeah. Mostly. It's the first of October today. Our half-birthday. Stupid, right? We started celebrating it when we were kids. See, our actual birthday was always about us going all out, playing pranks on everyone else. April Fool's Day and all. How could we resist? Our half-birthday, though, that was just about us. Our own little secret celebration for playing pranks on each other."

"That sounds nice."

"It was." He toyed with a lock of her hair, twirling it around his finger and watching it bounce back when he released it. "This one year he tried to glue my arse to the toilet seat. We were going through a bit of a fascination with Muggle pranks at the time. Charlie ended up getting stuck instead of me, though. It was quite the sight to see. Him chasing after both of us, toilet seat still stuck, trying to cover himself and hit us at the same time. Fred very nearly got a photo of it, but Mum caught us."

He rolled onto his back, still smiling at the memory. A sigh passed through his lips as they turned down.

"I miss him." His voice cracked on the last word.

"I know." Hermione pushed his shaggy ginger hair back from his forehead. "I realise it's not the same, but I miss him, too."

"Oh, you just miss his smooches, you little hussy."

His laugh found a louder echo of itself in hers: involuntary and irresistible.

"I only kissed him once, and you know it," she said.

He shifted onto his side again, his face so close to hers that their breath mingled and his features looked blurry. "You never wanted to kiss him again?"

"Not really."

"Why not? Didn't you like it?"

Good Lord. Did he have to be quite so close to her while talking about whether she liked kissing his identical twin, of all things?

"Yes, I liked it. But it was a one-time thing. And it was just a friendly kiss."

Unfocused as his face may have been, she could still see the teasing half-smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Friends kiss with their tongues? You and I have been going about it all wrong, then."

His gaze moved from her mouth to her eyes and back again, just as it had that afternoon on Primrose Hill. When she realised his breath was as shallow and rapid as her own, a warm thrill sprang to life in her belly and quivered up to her chest. One of his hands settled over her cheek.

"Why do I feel like it should be raining right now?" he whispered.

When Hermione let out a gasp of laughter, her nose touched his. Instead of pulling back, he let his hand drift down her body, his fingers tickling her arm on their path to her waist. He held her tight.

"I want to, you know," he said.

"Want to what?"

"Kiss you." The arm he'd wedged between them moved up so his thumb could trail across her lower lip. "In case it wasn't completely obvious."

She thought he was grinning, but he'd moved so close that she could no longer see his mouth at all. He had to be; that tone in his voice practically formed a smile in the air between them, like the sound waves became something she could touch. Hermione's heartbeat raced, setting a faster tempo for this dance they'd been caught in for months.

"I think about it a lot," he said. "Way too much, really. Sometimes I think I've reverted to the age of fourteen, given how often I dream about being back at Hogwarts and taking you up to the Astronomy Tower. You'd probably slap me if you could read my mind."

"I doubt that." She touched his mouth, just to make sure the smile was really there — to make sure it was fuelled by affection rather than a desire to tease her. "What's stopping you?"

At first, she thought he wouldn't answer. The lips beneath her hand pursed, kissing her fingertips again and again as the quiet of easy companionship crept in. When his voice came, it was lower than a whisper — just a breath.

"Give me a little while longer, okay?"

Hermione nodded, her forehead nudging his. "All right."

"I mean, I'll completely understand if you can't restrain yourself and you just _have_ to snog me before you explode from an overdose of lust. Won't blame you at all. Few women could resist as long as you have."

"Pft. I think I'll manage."

This time, she saw his smile. He backed up far enough to show her the slight curve of his lips, at once both fond and rueful.

Shaking his head, he laughed. "Damn."


	12. Magic

_**A/N: **__Hello! Since it's been so dreadfully long since the last update, how about a recap of the story so far?_

_Hermione received a message from Fred via the Wireless, asking her to find George. She did so, and has been meeting him in secret, as he isn't yet ready to face his family and the Wizarding World again. His magic went a bit haywire just after Fred's death, resulting in a minor injury to Ginny. Hermione has been teaching him the ways of being a Muggle: laundry, cooking, and 1980s cartoons. Lee has joined in with their fun as well, from time to time. When we last left them, George had just admitted that he wanted to kiss Hermione. _

_The story is winding down, now. Just one more chapter after this one, plus the epilogue. Thank you for sticking with me throughout the sporadic updates as I rewrite this fic! xx_

* * *

**Chapter 12: Magic**

"Hermione?" Percy said as he shook her shoulder, snapping her out of her daydream. "Are you okay?"

"Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

"You've been a little sidetracked the past few weeks."

"Sorry," she said again. "Won't happen again. I'm fine."

More than fine, really. Her daydreams were distracting in the best possible way. She'd been letting herself be carried away and smiling a secret, giddy sort of smile when Percy interrupted her.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, looking as though he was bracing himself for a blow. She was tempted, just to see how much he would squirm.

"Mm, I don't think you really want to hear about my love life," she said.

"Oh." His lips turned down into the sort of frown he might have given someone who interrupted his reading. "Well, being single will only be an asset to you right now. You can work your way up through the Ministry without worrying about your personal life interfering."

Leave it to Percy to boil anything down to how it impacted career advancement.

"Thanks, Perce," she said with a dry laugh. "Helpful."

Smiling, he tugged one of her curls. "Why don't you take a break? We've been working on this for hours."

"Yeah, I suppose I could. I've had quite enough of Pimpling Whizzbees for one afternoon."

When Hermione reached the front of the shop, she found a very distraught Verity. The queue for the till went out the door. Customers badgered her from every side for assistance, and Ron and Lavender were nowhere in sight. After promising the frazzled Verity that she'd find one of the other shop employees to rescue her, Hermione rushed to the break room.

About a year before she started attending Hogwarts, Hermione went on holiday with her parents. During said holiday, they went swimming in a lake. Or, they tried to, at least. It was during a drought, and the water was so low that people had to walk for about twenty metres through what was essentially a mud pit before they reached the water. Hermione went running ahead, eager to reach the lake and start swimming. She ended up sinking up to her thighs in the fishy smelling muck. When her father pulled her out, it made a wet, suctioning noise that could only be written out phonetically as _schlorp_.

That holiday was the first thing she thought of upon seeing Ron and Lavender snogging in the break room. The sound was exactly the same as when she got stuck in the mud. _Schlorp_. Apparently, neither of them had improved their technique since sixth year. Well, more power to them if they both enjoyed it that way.

Hermione coughed. A grimace found its way onto her face at the extra-loud noise of Ron's mouth separating from Lavender's, though she tried to force it into a neutral expression.

"Err, sorry to interrupt, but Verity is kind of drowning out there," she said. "She asked me to get one of you."

"Oh!" Lavender said, her cheeks turning pink. "Right. I'll go."

With that, she squeezed past Hermione and hurried to Verity's assistance, her gaze glued to the floor.

"Shit," Ron said as the door clicked shut. "Sorry. I shouldn't have let you find out like that. I meant to tell you-"

"Relax. I'm happy for you. Both of you."

"Really?" He edged away from her, like he was afraid a flock of canaries would pop out and attack him at any second.

"Of course. I was just surprised. I didn't realise you were that interested in each other." And she didn't realise that two people could produce that much saliva. "She's grown up since you last went out with her, though. I think she'll be good for you. Don't worry, I'm not carrying a torch." Chuckling, she pulled him into a one-armed hug. "I can eat a Paramour Violet to prove it, if you like."

Ron laughed along with her, then looked down at her with curious blue eyes. "Are you actually carrying a torch for someone else, then? The Secret Lover not-Percy bloke?"

"Shouldn't you be getting back to work?"

"Nah, I'm the boss." Flopping down in a chair that kicked up a cloud of dust, he crossed his arms behind his head. "So, is it someone at work? Wait, it's not _Malfoy_, is it?"

"Oh, for the love of... You're just as bad as him. He thought the same thing. Arrogant little ferret. No, it's no one at work." She wrinkled her nose. "I don't really feel comfortable talking about this with you."

"Hmm." Ron stood up again in order to better make eye contact with her. "Look, I know I've been a bit... _difficult_ in the past when it comes to your boyfriends, but I promise I won't be this time. I talked with Ginny about it a few weeks ago. When I told her that I thought you really had a secret boyfriend, she had this long talk with me about driving you away and respecting your decisions and I don't even know what else. It was really long, and she used sock puppets. Condescending little…"

As Ron trailed off, muttering under his breath about his sisters methods, Hermione smiled.

"If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine," he said. "But there's no need to keep it all secret, really. I'm not going to get jealous this time." He grinned boyishly, looking rather proud of himself.

Hermione was more than a little skeptical. How long would his newfound openmindedness last once he discovered that her "secret lover" was George? All she could do was force a laugh, hug him, and hope he would remember his promise if she and George ever got involved.

On her way out of the shop, Hermione bumped into a familiar witch. Angelina's long arms reached out to steady her, surprise taking over her expression.

"Hermione," Angelina said. "Hi."

"Hi."

Angelina let the silence linger just long enough to become uncomfortable before she said, "How's George doing?"

"Um. He's... better, I think." As she spoke, Hermione's eyes darted around in search of any Weasleys who might overhear.

"Good. I felt awful after I the way I acted in the supermarket."

Hermione nodded, trying to shove away the mental image of George's face after Angelina mistook him for Fred. On impulse, she touched Angelina's arm.

"Would you like to see him?"

-oOo-

Hermione steadied herself against a brick wall next to a skip and shook her head to rid herself of the lingering, squeezing sensation of Apparition. Angelina and Lee stood a few metres away, but no one else disturbed the alley near George's flat. They appeared to have managed the journey without being seen by any Muggles. As if on cue, her phone vibrated in her handbag. The words "Secret Lover" lit up the screen.

"Are you busy right now?" George asked as soon as she answered.

"Well, I _was_ working on some new products with Percy, but-"

"Ah, forget Percy," he said with a scoff. "You know I'm the Weasley man you really want to spend time with."

Hermione laughed. "If you would've let me finish, you would already know that I'm on my way to yours. Lee's with me, and, um, we're bringing another visitor."

"Oh? Male or female?"

"Female."

"Don't tell me he's actually managed to find someone willing to shag him."

Before Hermione could respond, Angelina snatched the phone away.

"I heard that," she said, "and no, he most certainly has _not_. I should hope I have better standards than that."

"Oi!" Lee said. "I'm standing right here, y'know."

Angelina grinned. "We'll see you in a few minutes."

As usual, Hermione let herself in without knocking. George stood in the middle of the living room, not even trying to look casual. His posture was as stiff as Rita Skeeter's hair.

"Hey, mate," Angelina said, her lips twitching up into a soft smile. "It's good to see you."

"Yeah, same." He cleared his throat. "But what's all this about standards? Since when do you have those?"

Angelina's voice lowered to an affectionate murmur. "Since sixth year."

"Ah, right." He rubbed his chin, as if this was brand new information. "That makes sense. Knew it couldn't have been before second year or so. Guess you got over your Squib fetish."

Angelina groaned. "That was your fault."

"_My_ fault? I'm not the one who broke poor Filchy's heart."

Roaring with laughter, Lee clutched his sides. "I forgot all about that," he said. Turning to Hermione, he added, "Fred and George dared her to leave an anonymous love letter for Filch. She dotted her i's with hearts and told him she dreamt of a little cottage with just her, him, and Mrs. Norris. And I think there was something in there about loving his cabbage-y aroma. It was brilliant."

"Until Professor McGonagall worked out that it was me," Angelina said. "I had to sit in her office for an hour, listening to her talk about proper student/faculty relations."

"Yeah," George said, "but look on the bright side. You never told her it was our idea, so we never got in trouble. And isn't that what really matters?"

With that, the three friends fell into an easy, laughing conversation about their antics at Hogwarts. Hermione listened in, shaking her head at this, rolling her eyes at that, but mostly beaming. When they started talking about getting Katie and Alicia around for a visit, she waved goodbye to George over Lee's shoulder and slipped out the front door. Better to leave from the alley to avoid interrupting their reunion with the crack of Disapparition.

As she walked, she rubbed her hands together, wishing she'd thought to bring gloves and a scarf. An unseasonably warm November had been frozen out by a December that already threatened snow. Everyone she passed was bundled up, squinting their eyes against the bitter wind. Cloud thickened overhead, blocking out the setting sun.

George caught up with her in the alley.

"Hey," he said as he jogged up to her, his cheeks pink and his eyes bright from cold. "Hold on a sec." Backing her up against the wall next to the skip, he gave her shoulders a squeeze. "There's something I've been thinking about trying. Stay right there, okay?"

Hermione nodded. After putting metres of space between them, he produced something from the inner pocket of his jacket: a wand. _His_ wand. Hermione held her breath.

"Orchideous," he said, circling the wand in the air. A cheerful bouquet of bright yellow dandelions burst from the end and landed in his free hand. He offered them to her with a flourish and a half-smile.

"Hey, what do you know?" he said. "Neither of us exploded. That's a good sign, right?"

"I'd say it has to be." She chuckled. "And, err, thank you. Dandelions?"

"Fred and I used to pick them and give them to Mum when we were little. She always put them in jars of water and said how beautiful they were. Never complained about them being weeds." Pausing, he caught his lower lip between his teeth and raised his eyebrows. "Well, until she worked out that we were charming them to dye her nose green when she sniffed them."

"Tsk. Horrible boys."

Just in case, she kept the bouquet far from her nose.

"We really were." Rocking back on his heels, he tucked his wand away and inched closer to her. "Are you going to the Burrow for Christmas?"

"I imagine so. I'll probably stop by for a while before I go to my parents' house."

"Good." A few brave snowflakes landed in their hair and melted while he cupped one of her shivering hands between both of his and blew on her fingers to warm them. "Do me a favour, then?"

"Of course."

"Ask my mum to set an extra plate?"


	13. All is Bright

**Chapter 13: All is Bright**

Christmas morning dawned bright and cold, with a thick layer of hoar frost softening the world. Hermione and George trudged together through the Burrow's garden, their boots skidding along the icy path.

"I won't let them be angry with you," he said. "For not telling them you found me, I mean. It's my fault I was away for so bloody long."

As they approached the front door, he gripped her hand. Squeezing his fingers back, she rang the bell. Even as the doorknob started to turn, he didn't let go.

Ginny was still in her pink and blue cloud print pyjamas: bleary-eyed and messy-haired. Upon realising who stood on the doorstep, she squealed and launched herself at George, knocking his hand out of Hermione's grasp.

"You idiot." She half-laughed, half-sobbed, alternately hugging him and hitting him in the chest. "Why did you stay away so long?"

George chuckled. "Missed you too, Gin."

"What is all this commo—" Mrs. Weasley's voice cut off with a gasp. She stared at George for a few seconds, her mouth hanging open, before she perfrormed a repeat of Ginny's reaction — without the slapping and name-calling.

"I'm sorry, Mum," George said, patting her back.

"Oh, it doesn't matter," she said, holding his face between her hands and letting out a loud sniffle. "You're here now. But if you _ever_ do something like that to me again, I will..." Pausing, she drew her eyebrows together. "Wait, Hermione? Is this the friend you were talking about bringing along?"

"Yes," Hermione said. "I'm so sorry I kept it from you, but—"

Mrs. Weasley brought an end to the apology with a crushing hug and a whispered word of thanks. Over his mother's shoulder, George grinned at Hermione.

Of all the reactions Hermione had been anticipating from Mrs. Weasley, a hug certainly wasn't among them. She had expected explosive shouting, a lecture, or perhaps some snubbing reminiscent of the way Mrs. Weasley treated her when Rita Skeeter spun vile lies in _Witches Weekly_. Most likely, all three.

When Mrs. Weasley and Ginny ushered the two newcomers into a warm kitchen stuffed to the brim with sleepy redheads, Harry, and Fleur, Hermione was still thrown by the calm outpouring of gratitude.

Not so thrown that she missed Percy's reaction, however. He caught on far too quickly. It was mere seconds after George entered the room when the stunned, joyful expression on Percy's face softened into one of understanding.

It took Ron a little longer. As George was passed from relative to relative for hugs and apologies, Percy shot Hermione a gentle, questioning smile. She shook her head. When Ron noticed the silent exchange, she could practically hear the cogs in his brain working out that George was the friend who was listed in her phone as "Secret Lover."

By the way his hands tightened into fists, she gathered he was not pleased by this realisation.

How disappointing — if not at all surprising — that she'd managed to predict at least one person's reaction. It had been naïve to hope that one talk with his sister could undo years of habit.

When George came face to face with Percy, the former scratched the back of his neck and rocked back onto his heels. They stood in silence for a few seconds before George spoke.

"I was an idiot. I was—"

"A family-abandoning, grief-stricken moron?" Percy said.

George cracked a smile. "Yeah."

"Well." Percy let out a quiet laugh. "You can't say fairer than that." He held his hand out to his brother, completing the imitation of Fred's forgiveness of him prior to the Battle of Hogwarts. George ignored the hand and pulled Percy into a hug that looked almost Mrs. Weasleyesque in its enthusiasm.

A few minutes later, when George was distracted with fishing all of his Muggle books out of Hermione's beaded bag to give to his father, Percy pulled Ron and Harry aside. Whatever they said didn't reach Hermione's ears, but Percy kept patting Ron's shoulder. Harry's face shifted into the squinty-eyed expression he always adopted when pleading with Ron to be reasonable. Eventually, Ron began nodding in reluctant agreement.

George noticed the little discussion as well. As he sidled up to Hermione, he chuckled and said, "They think I'm really your secret lover now, don't they?"

"I would imagine so."

He hummed, draping an arm across her shoulders. "Shame for me that they're wrong."

Ron's eyebrows shot up. A smile crossed his face at something Percy said in low whispers to him and Harry.

A_ smile._ What the hell?

-oOo-

A garden gnome watched Hermione pace back and forth across frost-crisped grass. Scratching its bottom, it tilted its potato-shaped head to one side.

Ron would come around. She would make him. Best friend or no, she wasn't about to let him ruin things for her. First, she would sort things out with him, then she would address the whole "I want to kiss you" issue with George.

Sighing, she directed her attention to where George was working with his siblings to set up some fireworks that Percy had brought along. They had their own audience of garden gnomes, all of whom jumped back at the loud bark of laughter that erupted from George at something Percy said. Hermione couldn't hold back the grin that spread across her face at seeing her friend so carefree and at home with his family, but her smile fell away when Ron approached her a few seconds later, two bottles of butterbeer dangling between the fingers of his left hand.

"So," he said. "George, eh?"

"Ron—"

"I never would've seen that one coming." Shaking his head, he leant against the wall of the house. "To be honest, I was still half-afraid you'd show up here with Malfoy."

Hermione had to wonder: which was the less desirable scenario in Ron's mind? Her being with Malfoy or her being with George?

"Trust me, I'm not Malfoy's type," she said.

He nodded, his movements measured and slow. "It's a bit weird, but Harry and Percy think you two would be good together. You and George, I mean. I don't know how much I'd trust Percy's judgment on things like this, though." The smile he gave her was strained but genuine. "I'm not saying I'm thrilled that you went and fell for one of my brothers, but I'm going to try very hard to be happy for you."

Hermione's grin made a reappearance. "Thanks. There's nothing going on yet, though. We're just friends."

"Yeah, I noticed." The smirk and sidelong glance he cast her way were unsettling. She'd seen that look before — many times. Nothing good ever came of it.

Hermione's eyes narrowed into a glare. "Promise me you won't say anything to him. You let me do this on my own terms."

"Won't breathe a word," he said with a shrug. "Want a butterbeer?"

Relieved, she accepted the open bottle. When she took a swig, the familiar, buttery taste was tinged with something perfumey and floral. Suspicion whirred through her head. She'd tasted this before, but where? Harry interrupted her thoughts by wandering over to join them.

"Hermione, why is your hair pink?" Harry asked when she looked up at him. His voice was all innocence and light; it was the same tone he used to use when lying to Professor Snape about something.

"Oh!" Dropping the butterbeer, she slammed her eyes shut. For good measure, she covered them with her hands as well.

"It's brown again!"

Harry was so bloody helpful.

"Ronald Weasley." Hermione turned in what she thought was Ron's direction, her face heating with a furious blush. "I cannot _believe _you did that!"

The crunching noise of boots on frozen grass announced the arrival of the rest of the Weasley siblings as they wandered over to investigate.

"What did he do?" Ginny asked.

"Nothing," Hermione said, squeezing her fingers together tight — squeezing out any chance of accidentally catching a glimpse of George.

How purple would her hair be? Not a pale lavender, certainly. It would be strong: as vivid and vibrant as the emotions that fluttered through her chest whenever she was in George's presence. She'd told him all about the Paramour Violets — showed him pictures of Percy with neon pink hair. He would know what it meant. He would know that the deeper the affection, the brighter the shade.

Having her feelings on display for all to see was not the way she wanted to go about this. It would be like being stripped naked when she'd only intended to wear something slightly revealing.

"Then why are you covering your eyes?" George asked. "Did he flash you Ronniekins Junior? Don't worry, love. Your vision should return to normal in three to five days."

"I slipped her one of these," Ron said. A rustling noise was followed by a quiet chuckle from George.

"Just in case you decide you want to start throwing hexes, the whole thing was Percy's idea," Ron told Hermione.

Hermione gasped. "Percy, you didn't!"

"Err. I'm afraid I did, a little bit, yes."

"Hermione?" George said softly, tapping a finger against her hands. He was much closer than she'd realised. "Hello in there."

"Hello."

"Why are you hiding?"

"Because Ronald and Percy are prats. Possibly Harry as well."

With a squeeze of her wrist, he moved away. She didn't catch all of the urgent, lowered voices that followed, but she did hear Ron say something that sounded like, "Yes, I'm sure. Christ, just get on with it already." After that, all was silent, save for several pairs of retreating footsteps.

"Hey," George said, unexpectedly close to her again.. "Everyone else is gone."

"Well, that's unfortunate." She tried — and suspected she failed — to sound nonchalant. "I won't have anyone to talk to while I wait for the hour to be up."

"You have me." He trailed his hands down her sides to rest on her hips, his touch tickling and warming even through her jacket.

"That's true. What do you want to talk about?"

"Hmm, let's see. How about why you won't look at me?"

She didn't need to be able to see him to know he was smiling.

"I'm not sure I care for that topic."

Wrapping his fingers around her wrists, he tugged her hands away from her face. "Open your eyes," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Please? It's just me."

Well, no matter if it wasn't happening on her terms. She decided to let him see. After taking a deep, shaky breath, she looked right at him. As expected, bright purple curls sprang up in her peripheral vision. A smile dawned on George's face: his pre-war smile.

And then he kissed her.

Unlike their previous almost-kisses, he gave neither of them any room to back out. One second his lips were tilted up in a grin, the next they were covering hers. His arms wrapped around her waist, holding tight, keeping her as close as possible. As their mouths moved together, fumbling and laughing and giddy, the most coherent thought pounding through Hermione's mind was the same one she'd had upon finding him wandering around a bookshop so many months ago.

_Finally_.

George laughed at her slight whimper of protest as he pulled back. "Me too," he said against her lips, digging in his pocket for the Paramour Violets that Ron had left with him. Within seconds of popping one of the sweets into his mouth, his hair turned purple — just as intense as hers. "Wasn't it obvious?"

Hermione opted to shrug. She couldn't stop smiling. George's thumb traced a path along the curve of her lower lip as his forehead touched hers.

"What took you so long?' she asked.

"Err, well. Forgive me for bringing up my little brother at a time like this," he said, "but I was kinda waiting until I could talk to him before I initiated anything with us. I just... this is going to sound stupid, since I didn't even see Ron for months by my own choosing. The thing is, though, we both always knew it was a temporary separation. I know how ridiculous he used to be about people you went out with." He forced out a brittle laugh. "I didn't want to lose another brother. I couldn't let him hate me over this."

"He's okay with it," Hermione said. "Really. He told me."

"I know." With a happy sigh, George nuzzled her neck. "I really must send flowers to him and Perce for spiking your drink."

"Must you?" She snorted. "I was thinking of sending them a few well-chosen hexes."

George's breathy chuckle warmed her skin. Just as his hand started to inch its way up her ribcage, he let out a yelp. The little gnome who had watched Hermione pace had chosen to gnaw on George's ankle. With a few muttered threats about de-gnoming, he shook it off and aimed a half-hearted kick at it as it scampered away.

"Damn gnomes," George said. "Guess it wouldn't really be home without them."

When she laughed, he kissed her mid-giggle. This time, she was the one who held him almost too tight for breath, keeping him there.

She hoped the outcome of her mission would make Fred proud.

"You know what, Carl?" he said. Another five kisses landed on Hermione's lips: quick and sweet.

For once, she didn't mind the nickname.

"What?" she said.

"Snogging a bloke isn't half bad."


	14. Epilogue

_**A/N: **Thank you all so much for staying with me during the rewrite of this fic. It was one of the first stories I ever posted, and I've had a lot of fun revisiting it. Sorry I left you waiting so long for the epilogue! Thank you for your patience._

* * *

**Epilogue**

_Four years later._

Warmth curled around Hermione: the last few rays of summer. Up ahead, Hogwarts stood still and quiet, its windows glowing orange in the sunset. As she trudged towards its gates with Ginny and Professor McGonagall, familiar voices rippled through the semidarkness.

"I don't know if we should be doing this," a messy-haired shadow said — Harry.

"Potter, you can't seriously tell me you're afraid of your own Head of House." That drawl could only be Draco. "You faced the Dark Lord, for Circe's sake. McGonagall isn't _that_ much more terrifying than Old Snake Face."

Ginny giggled, but stifled it with the back of her hand when Professor McGonagall shot her a glare.

"I'm not afraid of her," Harry said. "Not at all. But if she finds us trying to break in, you know she won't be pleased."

"Oh, come on Harry." George's voice, loud and bright. "Where's your sense of adventure?" A few charms left his lips: softer, as if he was whispering to a wild animal. The gate rattled, but didn't budge. "Damn. Serves me right for helping them block off the secret passages. Perce, hand me one of those hairpins."

"I don't get it," Ron said. "Why did you bring _Malfoy_?"

Of all the things to concern himself with in his current circumstances, he chose Draco's presence. This time, it was Hermione who smothered a laugh.

"Obviously I'm here because Granger and I have been having an affair," Draco said. "We're going to have one last go on McGonagall's desk."

George laughed. "You'd better not let Hermione hear you say that, unless you fancy getting slapped again." After a few unsuccessful prods of the lock with the hairpin, he turned to Ron and added, "He's here in case I need someone sneaky. No offence, but the rest of you lot have all the subtlety of a bludger to the head." The lock jiggled, but a cracking noise made George frown. "Damn. Broke it. Another hairpin, Percy, if you please."

"Why do you need the rest of us here, exactly?" Percy asked. "If we get caught—"

"Relax, Perce," George said. "We aren't going to get caught. But if by some chance we do, I need you to act as bait. You'll have to distract the authorities so I can carry out the plan."

"What makes you think old Carl is gonna show up?" a tall shape with Lee's voice asked. "If memory serves, she was never much for breaking the rules."

"She'll turn up. She can't resist me. And you'd be surprised what a rulebreaker she can be."

"Heh. I bet. Always the quiet ones, eh, mate?"

Draco scoffed. "Since when is Granger quiet? And how, exactly are we supposed to distract McGonagall?"

"How should I know?" George said. "You're supposed to be the sneaky one. I can't be responsible for planning everything."

Professor McGonagall chose that moment to clear her throat and cast a rather loud Lumos. The guilty party spun towards her, all wide-eyed and speechless.

"Weasley," McGonagall said, shaking her head. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"Err, taking an evening stroll with my friends? Oh, and Malfoy. And various lockpicking devices. All perfectly innocent."

"Mm. So I see."

"Right then," Lee said with a nod. To the unanimous bemusement of everyone else, he wiggled his hips and took off his jacket.

"Lee, what on earth?" Hermione said, pursing her lips to hold in a laugh as he started to unbutton his shirt.

"I'm being a distraction so George can get you alone." As he continued to gyrate, he shot his former professor a wink. The withering glance he got in return didn't succeed in deterring him. "You'd better not look, Carl dear. Wouldn't want you to abandon George to come chasing after me."

Hermione snorted. "You astonish me."

"Keep your clothes on, you brazen hussy," George said through a fit of laughter. "And Gin, what were you thinking? You were only supposed to get _Hermione_."

"I was thinking I'd get the gate unlocked for you, you ungrateful git. I told Professor McGonagall what you were planning, and she agreed to let you in."

"Oh." He grinned. "Right. Brilliant. Thanks, Professor."

McGonagall sniffed. A reluctant smile sneaked across her face as she moved to unlock the gate. Once they were inside Hogwarts' grounds and everyone else had left them, George took Hermione's hand and led her into the castle. It wasn't until they'd climbed the steps to the Astronomy Tower that he took in her appearance.

"Is...is that?" His fingertips skated over the midnight blue satin bodice of her dress — the same dress Fred had transfigured out of a pair of pyjamas so long ago.

Hermione nodded. "I'm quite pleased I can squeeze into it after nearly ten years, to be honest."

"You look beautiful," he said. "How about a dance?" He withdrew a miniature wireless set from his pocket, brought it back to its usual size, and set it on the floor. "I was going to set up before you got here. There was going to be music, and candles, and—"

"George... what on earth are you up to? What is all of this?"

"Dance with me and find out. It's what Fred made that dress for, after all." Smirking, he tapped the wireless set with his wand.

What came out of the speakers was decidedly not music.

"Good evening!" Fred's boisterous voice drew gasps from both George and Hermione. The former stumbled, leaning against the wall for support. "This is Rapier here with a very special edition of Potterwatch. This just in: George Weasley is actually settling down! Or, he would be, if he would look out the bloody window instead of staring at the wireless set."

A spark outside the tower broke George out of his stupor. "Oh, bollocks," he said. "I almost forgot! I mean, I didn't _forget_. I just got sidetracked, because of the dress, and Fred, and... That doesn't make me seem very... oh, just come here and see. Fred, don't you dare leave."

"Wouldn't dream of it, mate."

Before she even reached the window, Hermione saw the stars — not the stationary, ordinary kind that always seemed to shine brighter near Hogwarts. These stars _moved_. Pinpricks of light shot across a field of black and formed a message.

_Marry me, Carl._

"Dammit, Lee," George said. "I swear I told him to use your actual name."

Hermione laughed. "No, you didn't."

"Okay, maybe not."

"Wouldn't be you if you had." Standing on her tiptoes, she held him tight. "And of course I will."

His breath warmed her neck as it left him in an uneven sigh. "Good."

"A lifetime commitment to one woman," Fred said, his voice turning grave. "This is a sad day for womenfolk the world over. Please, let us have a moment of silence for all of those unfortunate ladies who will never know the touch of a Weasley twin."

At that comment, George let out a laugh so loud that it rang in Hermione's ears.

"They can always wait until they meet you beyond the Veil, Fred," she said with a fond chuckle and a roll of her eyes.

"Hmm, I hadn't thought of that," Fred said. "Excellent point. This is truly a day of celebration! My brother is marrying a lovely witch, and I will have twice as many prospects."

It had been quite some time since Hermione found herself surrounded by the infectious noise that was both twins laughing at once, and hearing it then made her eyes well up with tears that were half-joy, half-bereavement.

"By the way, could you have taken longer to get together?" Fred asked. "If I was corporeal, I would've hexed the both of you for being so thick. George, it only took me about ten _minutes_ to get Hermione to snog me, y'know. Not ten _months_. Bloody amateur."

George grinned. "Well, you always were the handsome one."

"True, true. Hey, Georgie?"

"Yeah?"

"Congratulations, mate."

George's lower lip trembled twice before he caught it between his teeth. "Thanks," he said in a thick voice. After a few beats of silence, he added, "Hey. I miss you."

"Me too." Fred cleared his throat. "Anyway, I believe you offered the lady a dance. Hermione, I forgive you for implying my singing voice would be less than melodious all those years ago. _I_ will provide the music."

Gathering Hermione in his arms, George began to sway. She simultaneously laughed and sniffled when she recognised the song Fred chose to sing to them. It was the same one a portrait had hummed while Fred had waltzed her around the corridors of Hogwarts on the night of her first kiss.

To Hermione, holding onto George and barely moving while his twin sang in his all of his off-key glory felt like their first dance as husband and wife, even though they weren't even close to being married. She already knew that the official dance at the reception, whenever it happened, couldn't possibly hold a candle to it. In years to come they'd probably forget how the caterer made fruitcake instead of chocolate sponge or how Lavender got so drunk that Ron spent half the night holding her hair back while she leant over the toilet. When they were in their hundreds, _this_ would be the moment they talked about. It was as certain and inevitable as her answer to his proposal had been.

"Hermione?" Fred said when the song came to an end.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Smiling, she ghosted a finger over the top of the wireless set. "Anytime."

"Anyway, I should sign off. I _really_ don't want to be around for what George has planned later."

To Hermione's surprise and relief, George didn't protest. He only exhaled something like a laugh and said, "Will we get to talk to you again?"

"You never know." Fred chuckled — the sort of low, eager chuckle Hermione remembered from right before his best pranks. "Goodbye, you two. Be happy."

The wireless clicked off, dropping the tower into silence. Hermione expected emptiness, but it never came. George tapped the set again, blanketing them with music and holding in the glow that surrounded them. As he twirled her around until her feet lifted, Fred's parting words followed her, spinning along with them.

_Be happy_.

She rather thought they would.


End file.
